


The Flower That Blooms in Adversity

by ShevatheGun



Series: The Mistress: The Rise and Regrets of Tora Naprem [5]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: (Not of Naprem), Aftermath of Violence, Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, And the Cardassian legal system, Cardassians, Concentration Camps, F/M, Fantastic Racism, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Torture, Occupation of Bajor, Offscreen Violence, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Rape Aftermath, Sex Work, Slow Burn, which should be it's own tag tbqh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2018-12-26 17:09:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 35,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12063411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShevatheGun/pseuds/ShevatheGun
Summary: A few months after their first meeting - and the morning after an attack on five women from her sleeping quarters - Gul Dukat approaches Tora Naprem with an offer she would be out of her mind to refuse.





	1. The Proposition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Calamity_Lena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calamity_Lena/gifts).



> I've been meaning to write more about the very beginning of Dukat and Naprem's relationship - just to take a break from my very long exploration of Naprem's history before him. A quick warning: this fic does include a non-explicit discussion about sexual assault and suicide. Please proceed with discretion.
> 
> This fic was beta'd by the always wonderful D'rorah, to whom I owe a great deal. Thank you so much for all your help and encouragement, lovebug.

****

_Naprem sketch collection (1) by shevathegun_

* * *

 

**Terok Nor - First Summer, 2352 - 33rd Year of the Occupation**

* * *

 

Even after Dukat escorts her back to the group quarters in Section 35, Naprem can't seem to quiet the ringing in her ears. The Cardassians standing guard are new, she knows that, but they look interchangeable with the ones who menaced them not hours before. The dark hums with a sinister energy. Naprem lies awake for hours, side by side with a stranger as sleepless as she is. She has the distinct sensation of being an insect lying beneath a boot, waiting to be crushed.

She still feels that way when the morning wake up siren sounds. The feeling stalks her into the showers, and to clock in. It slinks along at her feet in place of her shadow, following her first to the awkward, aching trial of breakfast, and then to work, which is much more awkward in every possible way. It keeps spooking her just as her exhaustion is about to catch up with her, frightening her awake again.

So in a way, it's a relief when Glinn Micas shows up in Records asking for her. No one in Records looks surprised and neither is she - not really. She's been waiting all day for the other shoe to drop and here it is. Here comes the spanking she joked about last night, as though it were funny. When exactly did she start making jokes only Cardassians laughed at?

(Not a fair question, really. Bajorans were too tough an audience these days.)

It's not even a surprise when he walks her to Dukat’s office. She was expecting that, too. Every step she takes down the hall feels like a funeral march. As they step into the lift, she leaves her stomach behind on the Promenade. Walking through Ops is an exercise in agony. Everyone stares as she comes in. They always do. They never stop what they're doing, but they always stare.

Usually, Dukat does too - but when they walk into his office, he doesn't even look up. He has his nose in a PADD, ridged brows knotted, thin lips twisted in a scowl.

“Worker #98719 as requested, sir,” Micas says, with a greenhorn’s eagerness.

“Yes, thank you, Glinn.” Dukat says, still preoccupied. He waves his hand. “Your service is appreciated.”

“Yes, sir!” Micas says, clearly shocked by the nonchalant praise. He looks at Naprem, his only witness and she shrugs in a way that she hopes says she's happy for him, but not so much that she's forgotten why she's here. He clears his throat and steps out of the room.

Naprem stands there, waiting. But Dukat doesn't look up. The silence is excruciating - each moment seems to last ten times longer than it ought to. Naprem holds her hands behind her back, shifts her weight from one foot to the other. She follows every minute adjustment of his expression, waiting for him to speak, but he only shifts, resting his bony chin against his middle finger, his fore digging into his cheek.

Finally, waiting is too painful to bear.

“Sir,” she says, expectantly.

“Your file makes for fascinating reading, Tora,” Dukat says. She realizes he must have been waiting for her to speak first. She’s embarrassed now that it took her so long. She swallows, trying to ignore the anxious twisting of her stomach.

“I’d think you’d find it more boring by now,” she says. “Considering your perfect memory.”

“It’s true,” he says, in that imperious, pitying tone of his. “My recollection of the document was flawless in every way. But I recently requested the full annotated version of your Risk Assessment documentation.”

Naprem takes a deep breath through her nose, trying to resist the automatic urge to grit her teeth. “Why?”

“‘ _Subject demonstrates a deeply-held affinity for anarchism and an ineradicable disrespect for order,_ ’” Dukat reads aloud, ignoring her question. “‘ _Pre-acquisition history is consistent with these findings - #98719 was, at one time, considered a leader of the anti-government movement before being surrendered to Cardassian penal authority._ ’”

“Why are you reading my Risk Assessment documentation?”

Dukat finally looks up. He studies her without turning to completely face her. After a moment, he tosses his PADD onto the table with a careless flick of his wrist.

“You were once at the forefront of an anti-government movement on this planet,” he says. “But in thirty-three years under Cardassian authority, there’s no record of you ever having joined or affiliated yourself any other anarchist group. Don’t you think that’s strange?”

She stares at him, blankly.

He tuts, spinning in his chair and standing, pacing around it. He steps close to her, walking slowly in front of her, then behind her, circling like a werecat, taking her in.

“You’ve never joined with the Bajoran resistance,” he says.

“No,” she says.

“Why not?” he asks. “Everything prior to your internment suggests that you should’ve been one of the founding members.”

“I wasn’t.”

“I _realize_ that,” Dukat chides, tail flicking with either curiosity or annoyance. “But why weren’t you? I know you’re… _sympathetic_ to their cause.” He tuts, as if this is a very pitiable thing to be. “And, you must admit, you are given to your fair share of anti-authoritarian outbursts.”

Naprem scoffs. “Such as?”

Dukat pauses, and gives her a meaningful look.

“Well, last night, for example.”

“Anti-authoritar-- I ran straight to you!”

“In direct defiance of your orders,” Dukat says. “Not to mention curfew.”

“What would you have had me do?” Naprem snaps. “Nothing?!”

“That would have been easier for you,” he says. “But I realize it’s not in your nature.”

“And what _is_ my nature?” Naprem says, all but glaring at him.

Dukat throws his head back and laughs. She feels another painful jolt of embarrassment splash across her chest.

“Oh, Tora,” he chuckles, circling back to his desk. “ _That_ is your nature. You’re a proud woman. Dignified. Despite your… frankly _Bajoran_ sense of decorum, you have an almost Cardassian sense of self-determination and dignity. I like that about you.”

“Sir,” Naprem interrupts, struggling not to show her teeth. “Forgive me, I’m sure you mean well. But there’s nothing Cardassian about me.”

“Tora,” he says, with a sinister, lopsided smile, “please. Call me Gul Dukat.”

“ _Sir_ ,” Naprem says, more pointedly. “Why am I here?”

Dukat blinks. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“If it were obvious I wouldn’t ask.”

“I have come up with a suitable punishment for last night’s misbehavior.”

“Which is?”

“You,” he says, with relish, “are to become my full time personal aide.”

Naprem stares at him, words failing her. He stares at her expectantly, still smiling. He really seems to think he's come up with something brilliant here and Naprem is so busy struggling to keep the stupefaction off her face that she fails to keep the snark out of her mouth.

“Sir,” she says, haltingly. “If your idea of a punishment is forcing me to be in your presence twenty-six hours a day -- I'm afraid I have to question the quality of your self esteem.”

“What?” He wrinkles his nose, then scoffs and shakes his head. “This is no time for jokes, Tora. I’m saving your life.”

“In what way?” she asks, with no shortage of bitterness.

“Central Command is expecting you to be punished,” Dukat says, folding his arms. “You’re a Level 6 Risk Assessment. You were sent here as a disciplinary measure after _decades_ of misbehavior. Yesterday, you escaped containment, evaded capture, and got within shouting distance of my personal quarters. You _must_ understand that sort of thing can’t go without punishment.”

Naprem gapes at him, unable to even form words.

“I was _reporting a crime_!” she cries, and oh, that is _not_ what she meant to do, but surely -- _surely_ \-- he can’t expect her to just take this sitting down, even if that’s what she walked into this room completely prepared to do. She wasn’t going to argue, she reminds herself -- she wasn’t going to fight it, fighting it has never gotten her anywhere, she was supposed to simply accept his judgment and move forward -- but she _can’t_ , she can’t, this is absurd. “What would you have had me do? I’m the only reason the same thing won’t be happening tonight, and you know it!”

“You could’ve waited and told me in the morning.”

“Well after you could do anything about it! _That’s_ what you want me to do? _Nothing?_ ”

“No,” Dukat says, overindulgently.

“Then _what_?!”

“The next time you want to come running to my quarters,” Dukat says, “I want it to be within your rights to do so.”

She’s left biting on her own tongue. Her mouth stumbles open, then shuts. She takes a sharp breath and then breathes it out.

“As my aide, you’ll have every right to override protocol to inform me of goings-on in an emergency,” Dukat says, looking very smug about her speechlessness. “Furthermore, you’ll be under my constant personal supervision, which should curb your more...disruptive tendencies. It’s a brilliant solution, if I do say so myself…”

“I already have a job,” Naprem says.

“Records has already been informed,” Dukat says. “Your hours with them will be reduced -- tomorrow, you’ll come directly here after clock-in, and do rounds with me. After I’m finished with you, you’ll return to Records until I have need of your services.”

“Which will be?”

Dukat shrugged. “You’ve always given me sound advice. I imagine your perspective will be invaluable as we move forward.”

“And you imagine I’ll provide it on command.”

“ _Tora_ ,” Dukat chuckles. “You’ll have my ear. What more could you ask for?”

“The fact that you can even ask that question with no sense of irony _astounds me._ ”

Dukat laughs again, more forcefully this time.

“Of course,” he laughs, “of course. ‘Pack up and go’ -- but be _reasonable_ , Tora. I’m being very generous. Anyone else would have you in a holding cell by now.”

“And what if I refuse?”

Dukat’s posture snaps upright. He looks deeply affronted for all of three seconds, then peers at her, curious.

“ _Refuse?_ Why would you refuse?”

Naprem shakes her head with a shocked noise. “You’re suggesting I be-- your personal _attendant_. All day, every day, just… waiting for you to have use of me.”

“Yes,” Dukat says, with a questioning grin. “I thought you’d be grateful.”

“ _Grateful?_ ”

“Not to mention honored. This is a highly prestigious position -- I am the Prefect of this planet. Serving me directly elevates you to a status most Bajorans can only dream of.”

“I’m not most Bajorans,” Naprem snaps, face flooding with anger. “I’m afraid I have loftier goals for myself than-- _attendant_ to the whims of a man who can’t even recognize when someone’s done him a favor.”

“Tora,” Dukat says, growing serious. “I won’t allow you to speak to me that way. I have given you unprecedented leeway in this matter, and I will not allow you to ignore that.”

“You won’t _allow me_?” she repeats, voice rising again. “I am the only reason you didn’t wake up to a _riot_ this morning!”

“And I am _trying_ to reward that behavior!” Dukat looks utterly flabbergasted, thin face blown wide with disbelief. “This is the gentlest punishment ever devised! Your objection to it is frankly very surprising -- not to mention a bit hurtful. I think I’ve been very reasonable.”

“Of course you do,” Naprem says, clenching her teeth. “You Cardassians always think you’re being so _reasonable_ , it’s how you justify everything you ever do.”

“Perhaps because we are. Listen to me, Tora: accepting this position will do wonders for you. This is what you _want!_ The ear of the Prefect -- the ability to help guide your people towards a better, more civilized future. It’s what _I_ want!” he says, cutting her off before she can argue. “Think of it -- a true Cardassian-Bajoran alliance. You and I could put an end to this endless cycle of mayhem and violence. I _know_ you want that. I know it’s why you never joined the resistance. They’re beneath you, Tora. You may share their goals, but you don’t share their values. I am giving you a unique opportunity to help shape the future of Bajor, and you’re going to refuse it -- for what? The sake of your pride? _Tora_ ,” he shakes his head, voice rife with reproach and disbelief, “is it any wonder we find you _unreasonable_?”

His logic invades her, as unwelcome as water in her nose. She’s torn between flushing with embarrassment, and shaking with anger. Her mind is a whirl of emotion and question. Her heart is jumping in her chest, pushing against her ribs like it’d like to take a swing at him.

Dukat sighs, clearly annoyed now. “I can see you need time to consider my proposal,” he says. “Very well. Return to your post. I’ll give you until the end of the workday.”

Naprem clenches her fists. “And what if I refuse then, too?”

Dukat stares at her, narrowing his eyes a little and shaking his head.

“Then I’ll have to come up with another form of discipline that will satisfy the demands of my superiors.”

Naprem swallows thickly, looking away. Dukat watches her for a while, then finally sighs and presses a button on his desk. The doors of his office slide open, and Glinn Micas hurries in, clearly still high on his earlier praise.

“Return this Bajoran to her post,” Dukat says.

“Yes sir,” Micas says. He takes Naprem by the arm, and she lets him with minimal resistance.

Before he pulls her out the door, Dukat speaks again.

“Tora,” he says, seriously. “I have no desire to truly punish you. I hope you won’t force me to.”

Naprem swallows again. She pushes her lips together tightly and says nothing. Micas waits a moment but correctly concludes from her silence that he’s better off following orders -- after a moment’s hesitation, he escorts her from the room.

Naprem only glances back as she’s stepping onto the lift. In his office, Dukat is still standing at his desk, arms folded, shaking his head at the floor, as though he can’t understand how or why that all went so wrong.

* * *

No one so much as looks up as Micas escorts her back into Records. Her terminal is waiting for her, the same as it ever was. As she sits down, Micas hovers, clearly uncertain, and then finally turns and leaves the way he came in. Naprem watches him go -- he’s so young, she thinks. Of course Cardassians have no regard for the sanctity of Bajoran youth, but with their own, she wonders why they aren’t more careful. A boy Micas’ age has no business being so far from home, up to his neck in a war he has almost nothing to do with.

She puts a hand on her forehead, resting her elbow against her desk.

“What am I doing?” she asks herself, quiet enough that none of the Cardassians around her can hear.

Dukat’s offer is pressing down like hands on her shoulders -- she still feels a little sick from shouting, from the endless litany, the _what have I done, what have I done_ dripping from some unseen tap directly on the top knob of her spine. Her body feels too small for her fear. Her breath is too shallow to satisfy.

What was she thinking? What is she _doing_? The Prefect’s personal aide -- Dukat’s right. Most Bajorans would kill for a position like that. With only a few exceptions, she’d be the highest Bajoran authority on the station. She would have the power to change things. Certainly more power than she has sitting here at this desk, surrounded by people who couldn’t care less if she fell through the floor. She could _do something_ \-- hasn’t she spent the last thirty-three years wishing, desperately, that she could _do something?_ And now that she has her chance, what’s stopping her?

Well, good sense for one thing. Good common sense -- what does a man like Dukat want with someone like her, anyway? He won’t listen. Cardassians never listen, and this one in particular is more thoroughly full of himself than a serpent eating its own tail. He only ever seeks her advice to supplement his own opinions. Every time he calls her in, it's only because he’s tried things his own way and failed, and needs someone to give him a better idea he can call his own.

But that’s not entirely true, is it? ‘His own way’ is still better than the way most Cardassians do things. What other Gul has outlawed child labor? None, to her knowledge -- not even the ones she’s liked best, scarce though they’ve been. In fact, all the Cardassians she’s liked best have been too wary and beaten down to do much of anything, save make her moderately more comfortable. Glinn Zevat, Gul Duvek, all the others -- they were good people in a bad place, but they were powerless to help her, and what little power they had was taken from them when they tried. Gul Dukat has the power to do right by her and her people, and when given the opportunity, he tries. The children on Terok Nor aren’t working right now -- they’re in class, they’re _learning_. They’re reading and writing, they’re talking and laughing. That’s because of Naprem, yes, but it’s also because of him. Because she’d spoken and he’d listened. When was the last time anyone listened to her?

But that’s no way to live a life -- like a trained bird perched on a man’s shoulder, singing on command. He doesn’t appreciate her commentary when it’s not invited, when it’s not predictable. He summons her to say things he likes to hear, to suggest solutions he’s amenable to. Anything bolder than that is a joke to him. Every time she demands that he release her people and leave them in peace -- even when she only calmly suggests it -- he throws his head back laughing like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. He’s not interested in implementing any real change; he’s not interested in her emancipation. He’s only interested in finding ways to pacify the workers, to heighten his own popularity and cement his power here. He’s ambitious -- that’s what it is. She’s nothing but a tool to him. For the small fee of her dignity and a small show of token resistance, he’ll improve life on the station by doing things that should’ve been done decades ago. He’ll give them three nutritious meals a day; he’ll grant them enough sleeping hours to be well rested in the morning; he’ll extend their midday breaks; he’ll grant them a larger quota of sanitary products; he’ll order the med bay to serve them when their health demands it. It’s the bare minimum, she thinks. He provides her people things no one should have to ask for.

And yet, she thinks, those were things they _did_ have to ask for. And she did the asking. If she hadn’t, would any of those things have ever been given? Would anyone else have thought to ask? Would he have listened, if not to her voice? And what will happen next time, if she isn’t there? What will he do, if she isn’t there to advise him? What will happen to the people who need her most? What will become of her people, if no one is there to speak for them?

“Worker #98719,” Pomam says, directly behind her. Naprem jumps in her seat, banging her knee against the desk.

“Ah-- Yes,” she hisses, trying to ignore the pain along with the profoundly unsympathetic look on Pomam’s face. “How can I be of service.”

Pomam hands her a PADD, still frowning.

“You are to provide a secondary assessment testifying to continued viability of several Bajoran assets -- Workers #32879, #32878, #46782, #33176, and #27777.”

“The continued viability,” Naprem repeats, uncomprehending.

Pomam sighs through her nose. “The workers in question were mishandled. They’ve already been assessed by a medical expert, and deemed fit to return to the workforce. However, we’ve been asked to allow _you_ to assess them as well. As the only Bajoran in this department, it has been intimated to me that your perspective in this matter will be of value.” It’s clear from her tone that Pomam cannot imagine a set of circumstances where this could possibly be true.

But Naprem is too distracted by her words to care about her tone.

“Mishandled,” she repeats, knowing exactly what Pomam means this time.

“I don’t intend to endure any more of your questions,” Pomam says, frankly. “Is this within your capacity, or not?”

Naprem has no idea whether or not something like this is within her capacity. But she’s up from her chair before she can figure out if it matters. Her knee is bruising and she feels even sicker now than she did before.

“Where are they?”

“They’re being held in a private room on the habitat ring. Details are on your PADD. I’ll expect a full report within an hour.” Then, without waiting for Naprem’s reply, she spins on her heel and returns to her seat, where she proceeds to sit down and begin typing as though nothing had happened.

Naprem leaves the room feeling drunk with unease.

An hour. She has an hour.

* * *

The room is easy enough to find with the help of her PADD. She’s still disoriented when she gets there, both from the walking and the task itself. She stops in front of the door, still a little lost in thought. Most of the apartments here are occupied by Cardassian officers or Occupational government officials. Being neither, she’s never spent much time on the habitat ring, barring the few times she’s visited Dukat’s quarters. And those visits have been brief. Supervised. She’s never had to ring the door chime, for example. In fact, she can’t remember the last time she rang a door chime and now, here she is, with no time and no idea of what to say.

The Cardassian guard who answers the door looks tired. His headfeathers are lank and there are deep circles under his eyes.

“Who are you?” he asks.

“I’m Tora Naprem,” she says. “Records sent me. I’m here for the… for the assessment.”

“Sure,” he says, leaning out of her way. “Whatever. Get it over with then.”

She doesn’t want to go in, but she forces herself across the threshold. Inside, the furnishings are surprisingly tasteful -- a bit modern and angular for her tastes, but unified and purposeful in a way she forgot furniture could be. She walks down the short entry hall, following the guard into the common room. And there, seated around a slate gray table, are the missing women.

She doesn’t know them well; after last night, their faces somehow look even less familiar. They’ve never spoken, but as a Records officer, Naprem knows their names: the twins, Tolo Rhya and Tolo Jarain sit close together at the end of the table, holding hands so tightly it’s turning their knuckles white. Kanya Iney sits closest to them, a dark bruise cupping the side of her face, her bad leg held at a delicate angle. Oyam Aipa, bruising along her mouth and jaw, cradles her hand with the missing finger against her chest, staring hard at the surface of the table. Fekak Oferea, waifish and wispy, sits at the opposite end, as far from any of them as she can get, slowly turning something over in her hand. The bruises around her throat are so dark Naprem can make out the shape of each individual finger of the hand that made them.

As she walks into the room, all but Oyam look up. Oyam glares harder at the table, as though it’s personally responsible for her suffering. Fekak jerks her hands off the table and into her lap, hiding whatever it was she was playing with. Naprem stops, holding her PADD to her stomach, feeling like an intruder. The guard comes to a stop beside her, folding his arms.

“Well,” he says, expectantly. “Here they are. Get to it.”

There’s a long moment of awkward silence. The women stare at the guard. The guard stares back at the women. Finally, Naprem turns her head to interrupt him.

“I need you to go,” she says, wondering why she has to.

The guard looks insulted. He raises his upper lip in disgust.

“And leave you to conspire?” he sneers.

Naprem feels anger flare in her chest. “I need to conduct my assessment,” she says. “Which I cannot do with you standing here. Do you want to explain to the Records department why I was unable to complete the task to which I specially assigned?”

The guard looks at her, lip hitched up, but finally scoffs and shakes his head.

“Whatever,” he says. “I’ll be in the other room. This better be quick.”

Naprem waits until he’s left before she turns back to the women. They’re all looking at her now. She swallows, and clears her throat.

“Hello,” she says. “I hope don’t mind -- I was sent by--”

“We can still hear,” Tolo Rhya says, dully.

Naprem flushes.

“Of course.” She raises her PADD, beset with awkwardness, and gestures vaguely to the table. “...may I?”

Tolo Jarain shrugs, which is all the answer she gets. Naprem bites her lip and moves, haltingly, to the table, pulling out a chair across from them. She takes a seat, aware of how they’re staring. She tries to get comfortable, but she can’t. She feels overwhelmed by dread and stagefright. She fumbles at her PADD, fingers clumsy.

“Um.” _Strong start_ , she tells herself, bitterly embarrassed by how little she knows what she’s doing. “My name is Tora Naprem. As you heard… I’m with the Records office. They asked me to… come here and… assess. Whether or not you’ll be fit to return to work. Any time soon.”

“I knew it,” Tolo Rhya murmurs.

“Fit to return to work?” Kanya says, brows pushed together beneath the brunt of the injustice of it all. “Now, you can’t be serious. After we were… attacked? Like that?”

“I know,” Naprem says, her voice terribly small. “I…” She looks down at her PADD. It has nothing to offer her. She turns the screen off, heart shuddering in her chest. “I don’t know what to tell you. If I had my way, you’d never have to look at another Cardassian again, let alone work for one.”

“Bless you,” Oyam says, sharply, and when Naprem looks at her, she realizes she’s been glaring at the table in an effort to fight back the fat tears threatening to stream down her face. “Bless you. You understand.”

“We know it wasn’t your idea to come here,” Kanya amends. “I don’t mean to make your work any harder.”

“It isn’t as if she has a choice,” Oyam says, voice trembling ominously. “None of us do. They’ll put us back to work, and there’s not a thing we can do to stop it. Just a little understanding, that’s all I’m asking for.” She loses her battle to the tears. “Just a little sympathy. A little pity. I’m not too old to be pitied, you know. I just… Is it wrong to want to be treated like I’m fragile? Just once? I’m not saying I want it all the time, but-- after something like this--”

She dissolves into tears, choking back sobs. Kanya reaches, gingerly, to rest a hand on her back. Naprem’s ribs squeeze her heart in her chest. Her throat feels as though it’s closing up.

“None of us should be going back to work,” Tolo Jarain says. “Those monsters who attacked us are still stationed here. Who’s to say they won’t try it again?”

“That won’t happen,” Naprem says, aching for it to be true.

“You can’t know that,” Kanya says, and the aching in Naprem’s chest only intensifies until it’s the point of a knife pressed against her skin. “And you shouldn’t promise things.”

“I know you,” Fekak says suddenly, and the others at the table go silent.

Naprem turns her head. Fekak is staring at her, girlish face blank and pale. She has sleepy, heavy-lidded eyes that give her a look of constant day dreaming. She tips her head a little.

“I know you,” she says again. “You’re in Section 35.”

“Yes,” Naprem says, oddly breathless. She feels everyone looking at her again.

“You’re in Section 35?” Oyam asks, voice raspy with tears.

“Yes,” Naprem says, fighting the urge to swallow.

“Were you the one?” Fekak asks. “The one who went to Dukat.”

Naprem looks at her -- looks at all of them. She feels as though there’s a spotlight on her, as though she’s surrounded.

“Yes,” she says, faintly.

“You did that?” Tolo Rhya asks.

“He saved us,” Tolo Jarain says, wide-eyed.

“You probably saved our lives,” says Kanya. “If he hadn’t come when he did -- Prophets, they would’ve killed us.”

“Nothing like this would ever have happened if it weren’t for those... _Gallitep_ soldiers,” Oyam says. “The regular guards are never _kind_ , but they’ve never done anything like this.”

“If you send us back to work, they’ll kill us for sure,” Tolo Rhya says. “I know they will.”

“They’re devils,” Oyam agrees. “Monsters. They don’t have a single heart between them, they’d kill us all if they’d let them.”

“The things they intended to do to us,” Kanya says, voice beginning to shake. “The things they had already _begun_ doing…”

Naprem sees Kanya reach up with her free hand, touching the plum-colored bruise her attackers left her with, and involuntarily she feels a tenderness in her own face. Even without a wealth of description, she feels almost like she was there, like she’s there now, being pulled apart and clawed at, being torn to pieces as someone watches and laughs. She feels claws rake over her skin, feels the explosion of pain as someone beats her, hits her so hard she falls to the ground, chokes her with such force that the bruises left behind are perfect impressions of their hands. She feels like a vole in the talons of an sinoraptor, pinned to a branch, skin giving beneath sharp claws and teeth.

“If you send us back to work,” Fekak says, calmly, “I’ll kill myself.”

“What?” Naprem gasps.

“Me too,” Tolo Rhya says. “If you send us back, they’ll try it again, I know they will.”

“I’d rather die,” Tolo Jarain says. Her sister grabs her hand again, and they cling together against the phantoms that stalk them even now. “I’d rather die than ever go through that again.”

“That won’t happen!” Naprem cries, trying to argue reason. “Monstrous they may be, but no one in their right mind would attack you again after what happened last night.”

“Those men dragged us off in broad daylight!” Kanya exclaims. “Right in front of everyone -- what about that implies to you that they’re in their right mind?”

“They’re all like that,” Oyam says, shuddering. “Those Gallitep soldiers, they’re all… _rabid_. If they’re allowed to remain on this station, they’ll infect all the rest, and then, there’s nowhere any of us will be safe.”

“Nowhere but in death,” Fekak says, looking down at the thing in her lap, still cradled in her hands. “That’s the only place no one can hurt you.”

“That’s enough!” Naprem says, shooting up from her seat. “That’s _enough_ , I didn’t--” It’s a struggle to breathe, now. She feels as though she’s racing against time, as though every second is a step closer to the edge of a cliff. “You can’t have survived all that to die now. I can’t bear it. It’s-- It’s too awful, I can’t bear to hear you speak this way. I won’t recommend you for a return to work.”

“If you don’t, what will become of us?” Kanya asks, shaking her head. “If you tell them we can’t work… You know what happens to Bajorans who can’t work. They won’t have any more use for us, and who knows what will happen then.”

“You’ll have to recommend us,” Tolo Rhya says. “You won’t have a choice. Either you’ll do it, or they’ll overrule you.” She begins to shake her head, unsteady. “They’ll make us go back, and when they do--”

“Don’t!” Naprem barks, and Tolo Rhya falls silent, jerking a little in her seat. Naprem swallows, realizing how loudly she said it, how hard the word felt when it knocked against her teeth. “Don’t,” she says, gentler this time. “Don’t say it again. I’ll think of something. I’ll…”

They’re all looking at her, waiting for her to say something she hasn’t even thought of yet. She tries to catch her breath. She looks at her PADD, as though it might help her. And then, she looks at Fekak, who’s staring at her as plaintively as the rest.

“...I’ll speak with Dukat,” she says.

Because surely, this is a time when a question must be asked -- and it’s clear that she’s the only one who can be counted upon to do the asking.

“What can he do?” Tolo Rhya asks.

“I don't know,” Naprem says. “But I think he's the only person who can do anything to put a stop to all this.” She grips her PADD, pulling it closer to her chest. “Please don't do anything drastic until we can speak again. I beg of you.”

A few of them share a look. No one makes any promises.

* * *

She doesn’t go back to Records. There’s no time. She instead walks - quickly - from the habitat ring to the lift, and takes it to the Promenade. The mine workers are just getting off shift, and the Promenade is thick with them, so crowded that Naprem has to push a little to fit through the narrow passageways left between shoulders and elbows. She holds her PADD close to her chest, and some part of her is waiting for one of the guards on duty to call after her and ask where she’s headed. None do.

She makes it to the lift at the far end of the Promenade and orders it to Ops. As the doors slide open and everyone turns to stare at her, she realizes that this may be the longest she’s gone without direct supervision in thirty-three years. The realization is stunning -- oddly invigorating, somehow disorienting at the same time. She puts her head down and hurries to Dukat’s office, waiting for someone to stop her, braced for opposition. Everyone stares, but no one says a thing.

But then, the doors slide open and she nearly loses her nerve altogether. He’s there, of course, but so is Security Chief Lukin, who whips his head around as she comes in. She freezes, seizing with dismay, but the doors slide closed with her inside.

“You!” Lukin barks. “What are you doing here? How did you get into Ops?”

Naprem tries to find something to say but Dukat cuts in before she can explain herself. “That’s enough, Chief.”

“Sir--” Lukin protests, but Dukat’s already beckoning Naprem forward, and she hurries over to him because it’s better than continuing to stand in the doorway, looking like an idiot. “Sir,” Lukin says, glaring at her, “I wasn’t finished.”

“I don’t believe I stopped you,” Dukat points out. Naprem’s standing awkwardly in front of his desk, trying to give Lukin enough berth. He catches her eye and motions for her to come closer, but she can’t see how, until he motions around the desk. Haltingly, with increasing mortification, she moves around it to stand beside him. Lukin looks like she may as well have just sneezed in his mouth.

“Sir,” he says, standing, “I refuse to just… sit here and play witness to this-- _indignity._ ”

“I don’t know what you’re referring to, Glinn,” Dukat says, calm as ever. “But if you have other matters to attend to, I can excuse you.”

“Please do,” Lukin says through his teeth, clasping his hand over his heart in a furious salute. He glowers at Naprem.

“You’re excused,” Dukat says. “I’ll expect your full report on my desk in the morning.”

“Yes, sir,” Lukin says, and then he turns on his heel and stalks out of the room, fists clenched.

Naprem stands there, feeling utterly consumed with embarrassment and stupidity. She’s not sure what she was thinking coming here -- she doesn’t even know where to stand, very less what to say.

“I’m sorry for interrupting,” she says.

“Not at all,” Dukat says with a brief shake of his head. He rises from his desk and goes to the viewport -- Naprem, with no other idea of what to do, follows him. “I was hoping you’d come before I sent for you.”

“Is that why my voice codes worked on the lift?”

Dukat looks at her and smiles, slowly.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“That was a fairly high stakes bet, don’t you think? Granting me security clearance before I’d even agreed to take the job.”

“I had confidence you’d see reason,” Dukat says, turning to look out through the viewport. The stars beyond twinkle with mischief, cold pinpricks of unfeeling light.

Naprem swallows and squeezes her PADD. The edges are hard against the inside of her fingers.

“I need to speak with you about...the women. From last night.”

“I assume you’ve come to tell me they’re unfit to be returned to the general workforce.”

“They are,” Naprem says. “After what they’ve been through--”

“Yes,” Dukat interrupts, shaking his head as though it’s all very sad. “It’s been quite an ordeal, I have no doubt. But Dr. Tebua assures me they’ve accrued no lasting physical impairments. They’ll have to return to work.”

“That’s it?” Naprem says, feeling like she’s been slapped. She moves forward, pushing into his personal space until he’s forced to turn his face and look her in the eyes instead. “They’re physically capable, so you’re going to throw them back on the mercies of your _henchmen_? Because that went so well last time.”

Dukat tilts his head just so, wearing a somber expression. “I respect your anger in this matter, Tora. I do.”

“No you don’t! You think I’m being over-emotional. If you send them back out there, those men will kill them, and if they don’t, I have it on good authority that those women intend to kill themselves.”

“Now that’s a bit hyperbolic,” Dukat says.

“That’s the truth,” Naprem snaps, blood running hot with anger. “Which is what you sent me to assess. It was _you_ , wasn’t it? You told the Records office to send me to complete a secondary assessment because whatever Dr. Tebua said, you wanted to know my opinion. Well, now you have it. My _opinion_ is that if you send those women back into the workforce, you are sending them to their deaths. My opinion is that if you prioritize the physical capabilities of a victim of assault over the mental and emotional trauma they have endured, you are nothing short of a monster, and furthermore--”

“You think _I’m_ the monster?” Dukat interrupts. “You think I _want_ to send them back? I’ve served as the director of any number of Cardassian installations -- not _once_ has something like this been allowed under my authority. It’s unconscionable.” He stops his tirade and takes a breath through his nose, jaw flexing with displeasure. “But under Cardassian law -- no crime has been committed here. Which puts _me_ in a poor position to explain myself to Central Command.”

“Explain yourself?” Naprem asks, disbelieving.

“The level of discipline a man of my standing metes out must be equivalent to the transgression at hand,” Dukat says, every syllable angry and pointed. “Of the seven men involved, three are dead and the other four have wounds that may prohibit them from serving the Union further. That demands satisfactory explanation -- which, at the moment, I do not have.”

Naprem stands there, watching him -- a man in his prime, wracked with indecision. His broad shoulders hunch inward, and his thin face puckers with thought, revulsion plain in the twist of his mouth.

“Raptus of a Bajoran by a Cardassian officer is not a crime,” he says, and the lights of his office catch against his teeth.

“But it disgusts you,” Naprem says, and he doesn’t argue. Even as a wave of nausea crashes against her ribs, Naprem feels, for the first time in a long time, like she might not be completely alone. She sees the same tide rise up in him, knit into his brows and in the tight fold of his arms.

“None of my men would ever do such a thing,” he says. “And if they did, they would be well aware of the level of discipline that awaited them by my hand.”

“Sir,” Naprem says, quietly. “Why did this station receive a contingent of soldiers from Gallitep? I wasn’t aware we were in need of reinforcements. We seemed well-staffed when I arrived.”

Dukat’s lips tighten. “Gul Darhe’el sent them with his compliments. Many of the soldiers on this station are young -- untested. He felt his men might help supplement their lack of experience.”

“By poisoning them against you?” Naprem asks.

“I don’t follow,” Dukat says, staring out at the stars.

“The men who attacked the women from Section 35,” Naprem says. “They did so in defiance of your explicit orders. That was part of the fun for them. Even the ones who didn’t participate in the attack -- they were complicit in it. They aren’t loyal to you.”

Dukat turns his head again to regard her. His look is peircing. With all that she’s been stared at today, he somehow makes her feel _seen_ in a way no one else has -- it’s intrusive. Distracting. Unnerving. Goosebumps rise along the back of her neck.

“Loyalty can’t be ordered,” she says. “It can’t be… commanded. It can’t be bought.”

“Was that your point, this morning?” he asks, suddenly. “That I can’t command you to be loyal to me?”

“No,” Naprem says. He always makes her feel shy when he looks at her like that -- it’s so embarrassingly direct.

“But it’s true, isn’t it?” He paces slowly forward, though there isn’t far to go. She never retreated from his side, and so it takes only a few steps until they’re standing uncomfortably close together. He leans in in that invasive, Cardassian way of his, and Naprem stubbornly refuses to pull away. “I can’t command you. Your loyalty must be earned.”

“Everyone’s loyalty must be _earned_ ,” she scoffs. “But that isn’t my point. ...well. It’s partially my point. But -- if the men you punished were all soldiers transferred from Gallitep, every one of whom is disloyal to you, then those women are right. They’re _not_ safe. If we send them back to work, this will happen again. They were victims chosen at random, the next ones may not be so lucky as to survive. And now that the perpetrators know that you’ll stop them, they’ll be more careful. They won’t get caught. And if that is allowed to go on -- if they are allowed to subvert your authority, to flagrantly disobey your orders -- how long do you think it will be until they convert others to their cause?”

Dukat looks at her a moment longer, then looks away, exhaling sharply through his nose. She sees his ridges blanch ever so slightly.

“They could dismantle this entire station from the inside,” he says, bitterly. “No doubt exactly as Darhe’el commanded them to. That miserable old brute -- he’d love nothing more than to see me rot.”

“Surely, _that’s_ a crime,” Naprem says. “Conspiring to incite disloyalty among your ranks? That’s a satisfactory explanation for their punishment, isn’t it?”

Dukat begins nodding even before she’s finished her sentence. “Yes,” he says, pacing back towards his desk. “Yes, that will work -- we’ll pull them all off rotation, interrogate all of them. They clearly share the old man’s love of sadism, but not his cunning. There’ve been reports against all of them for insubordination, incomplete reports, misuse of discipline… And once I give Central Command my report, it’ll render his men untouchable for years to come.” He grins to himself. “Tora, you are truly a brilliant mind.”

Naprem ignores the way her cheeks flush with color at the compliment. She doesn’t have the heart to indulge any conversation about how ‘brilliant’ she is right now.

“And the women?” she prompts him.

He pauses mid-self-congratulations, thinking a moment.

“Do you believe any of them have any evidence of this conspiracy?”

“I don’t know,” Naprem says.

Dukat turns back towards her, giving her that intrusive look again.

“Tora,” he says again, speaking slowly. “Think very carefully before you answer. Do you believe that any of the women attacked have any evidence or knowledge relevant to this conspiracy?  Perhaps… they overheard one of the men speaking of it, in the vaguest of terms. Perhaps they all did. Bajoran memory is… notoriously unreliable, especially in the face of trauma. They couldn’t be blamed if they… misremembered the specifics.”

Naprem stares at him, her breath coming up short again.

“Yes,” she says, after a second’s hesitation. “Yes, I think… I think they all may have heard something.”

“Well,” Dukat says, “that would be very auspicious. If that were true they would need to be put in protective custody until which time we can guarantee their safety.”

Naprem nods, clutching her PADD. “I agree.”

Dukat nods, seeming satisfied. “Then I suppose you ought to head back and see what you can do to document their account of events. I’ll notify Records.”

“Yes, sir,” Naprem says, feeling almost wobbly on her feet. “Of course, sir.” She pauses, wanting to rush out the door but feeling the need to be excused first. “Is that all, sir?”

Dukat hums, dropping back into his desk chair and crossing one leg over the other. He’s all long, lanky angles. “I suppose it goes without saying that you’ve accepted my offer?”

Naprem pauses, her internal momentum whirring to halt. She opens her mouth. Closes it. Swipes her tongue over her lower lip. Nods.

“Yes, sir,” she says, wondering what, exactly, she’s getting herself into.

“Excellent,” Dukat says, a crooked grin unfurling along his mouth. “When you’ve finished tonight, return to your quarters. I’ll expect you here first thing in the morning.”

“Yes, sir,” she says.

“Good,” Dukat says, and she turns to go. “That’s all… Professor.”

Naprem freezes again, stupefied. The doors open and close all in the time it takes her to turn her head to look at him. He smiles again, even broader now.

“You don’t mind, do you?” He holds up his own PADD. “According to your file, you were quite renowned in your time. I thought it suited you.”

“No, sir,” she says. “It’s fine. It’s… been some time. Since anyone called me that.”

The smugness in Dukat’s smile softens, then, melting into something else.

“Well then,” he says. “Goodnight, Professor.”

“Goodnight, Gul Dukat.”

She turns and walks out through his office doors, down the steps, and back through Ops. This time, she doesn’t even notice the staring. It’s drowned out by the dizzying sensation of being seen.


	2. The Good of the Many

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As she and Dukat investigate signs of a brewing coup, Naprem struggles to contest with her rapidly bruising pride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, rather than making this a series of shorts, I decided to make it a quick-and-dirty three-chapter arc. Don't judge me. Awkward beginnings are (apparently?) my jam.
> 
> Thank you so much to my beta reader, D'rorah. These stories are finally getting edited and I am LIVING
> 
> For reference: B'hava'el's name is pronounced "ba-hah-vehl."

_Cardassian uniform redesign by[shevathegun](http://shevathegun.tumblr.com/post/165737304330/cardassian-uniform-redesign-i-always-felt-so-meh)_

* * *

 

B’hava’el corners her in the commissary that night, right as Naprem’s beginning to suspect the Terok Nor rumor mill may be losing its touch. But sure enough, right as she’s about to take her tray off the line, B’hava’el appears at her elbow to scare the life straight out of her.

“The Prefect’s _personal aide?_ ” she asks, subtle as a slap to the face.

“ _Prophets_ ,” Naprem swears, fumbling her tray. She clutches her chest, the people behind her in the queue glaring. “Can’t you just say ‘hello,’ like a normal person?”

“Hello,” B’hava’el says, swiping the next tray off the counter and ignoring the scandalized gasp of the next woman in line. “You’re going to be the Prefect’s personal aide?”

“Not entirely of my own free will,” Naprem says, hurrying out of the queue before B’hava’el can start a riot.

“Oh, you could complain about anything,” B’hava’el chides. “If gold-pressed latinum rained from the sky, you’d complain about the bruises.”

“I think I’d start with the concussion and work my way up to the bruises,” Naprem says. B’hava’el takes her by the wrist.

“Listen to me,” she says, dragging Naprem to a table near the wall. “All the guards are talking about it. You’re big news, Tora.”

“Just how I like it,” Naprem mumbles, stabbing one of her cherry tomatoes with an unnecessary amount of force.

“This exactly what I mean: whine, whine, whine. Come on, this is brilliant! This is the perfect job for you! _Personal aide?_ You can finally put all that complaining to good use!”

“It’s not complaining,” Naprem says, hiding her mouth behind her hand as she chews. “It’s a statement of facts.”

“Whatever you call it, it’s working. I’ll tell you that much.” B’hava’el steals a tomato from Naprem’s plate and pops it in her mouth. “Mm. I mean it - this is such a great fit for you. You’re smart, you’re political… you’re _wasted_ out here. I’ve been telling you that since the beginning. You’ve got to see this as an opportunity - a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

Naprem shakes her head, pushing her rice around her plate. “I wish I had your optimism.”

“No you don’t,” B’hava’el says. “You wish you had my pragmatism. And that makes two of us. I mean… come on, Tora. People would kill for your job.”

“That’s what he said, too.” Naprem frowns down at her plate.

“Well, you won’t catch me saying this twice, but he’s right,” B’hava’el says. “Think about it - you’ll be able to go anywhere you want, anytime you like.”

“Anytime the Prefect _dictates_ ,” Naprem corrects her. “I’ll be his personal servant. That’s not really my idea of a good time.”

“It’s not like you have to give him a spongebath every night,” B’hava’el says, rolling her eyes. “You just have to stand there and look nice. You get to tell him what’s what every once in awhile. Who wouldn’t like that?”

“Anyone with pride,” Naprem says.

“Yeah, well. You guys have got to get over that,” B’hava’el says, bemused. “That’s what gets you killed, y’know? All you old crones are like that. What’s pride done for you lately, hm? I’ll tell you what: nothing.” She snags the rice bowl off Naprem’s plate and helps herself.

“Take it from me,” she says, her mouth full of rice. “Just put your head down, for once. This job; you’ll be able to do what you want, whenever you want. He’ll probably give you your own apartment! Think about that. When was the last time you actually got to shower in peace? Or sleep alone? You play this right, you’ll be living the high life.”

“The _high life?_ ” Naprem scoffs. “You’re describing the bare minimum accommodations of a _decent_ life.”

B’hava’el looks at her, sucking on her spoon.

“That’s what I mean,” she says. “About pride. You old biddies still act like you’re not crawling on your bellies through the mud with the rest of us.”

Naprem flushes with embarrassment. She hates that B’hava’el always makes such a production out of her age, of all things.

“I’m not so old that I’ve forgotten what it was like not to be a slave on my own planet,” she says. “And neither should you.”

“Can’t forget things I never had,” B’hava’el shrugs. “This is how things are now. And maybe you’re right. Maybe you should aim for better. But seeing as how bad we’re all doing - maybe it’d be worth your time to just aim for _decent._ ” She scoops up another mouthful of rice, resting her chin on her hand as she chews. “Y’know?”

Naprem flushes deeper and goes back to staring at her plate. B’hava’el drums her fingers against her cheek, letting her stew for a moment before she finally sighs and pulls her back out of it.

“Anyway,” she says, “we need to celebrate.” She smiles, pretty face lighting up with excitement. “We should go out!”

“What?” Naprem gapes at her. “No. No! After last night? Are you crazy?”

“First of all: yes. Second of all: you’re really going to let a thing like that ruin your fun?”

“Absolutely, I am!”

“Ugh.” B’hava’el reaches out and pinches her cheek. “You’re an innocent. Really.”

“I’m not. Where were you last night?”

“Working,” B’hava’el says. “Like always. And I’m fine, by the way. They weren’t scouting for professionals.”

Naprem’s stomach flips and knots. “Don’t say things like that.”

“Sorry,” B’hava’el says, and she clearly means it. “I didn’t mean to be crass.” She moves the food around on her own plate. “Some men… they’d rather steal something than pay for it. That’s all.”

Something occurs to Naprem, just then - she’s watching B’hava’el move the food on her plate in circles, mixing her tomatoes with her root vegetables and her rice. The shadows of her long eyelashes are playing over her rouged cheeks like leaves in autumn.

“B’hava’el,” Naprem says, with her heart in her mouth. “Have you… or any of the other women… have the soldiers from Gallitep approached you? Have they… ‘stolen’… from you?”

B’hava’el looks up from her food, but her expression doesn’t change. She picks up her cold cup of tea and sips it, nonchalantly.

“Wouldn’t matter to anyone if they did,” she says.

“It matters to me,” Naprem says.

B’hava’el shrugs. “That’s why I like you,” she says. “But that doesn’t change anything.”

“It could,” Naprem says. And then, after a second: “I’m the Prefect’s personal aide.”

B’hava’el chews slowly, then swallows, watching her all the while.

“Tora,” she says. “Let it go. My business is my business. And it’s nothing we haven’t dealt with before. Freedom doesn’t come cheap.”

She folds her hands, looking up at the ceiling. “Which, now that I think about it, is exactly what I’ve been trying to say - it’s not cheap. But whatever you have to give up, give it. It’s worth it.” She grins and reaches out to boop her on the nose. “Prefect’s aide. Oh, I could just _scream_ \- you little minx, you.”

“Don’t go out tonight,” Naprem says. “Stay in. I’m worried.”

“You gonna pay me for the time?” B’hava’el asks.

Naprem opens her mouth; but of course, she has no payment to give. She hasn’t received her pittance of wages since she arrived - a result of her Risk Assessment, no doubt. She gives B’hava’el a helpless look.

B’hava’el smiles at her apologetically.

“I’ll be fine,” she says.

Naprem isn’t remotely convinced.

* * *

 

Clocking in and heading to the lift on the promenade is a surreal experience. It feels as if all eyes are on her - a Bajoran out of line, out of place, walking unaccompanied to a lift she has no business boarding alone. The guard outside watches her step in, and stares at her as the doors slide closed.

She swallows, thickly.

“Operations,” she tells the lift, voice trembling just a little. It pings and begins its ascent. She clears her throat, trying to feel more sure of herself.

 _What if this is all a joke?_ she wonders. _What if this is all some wild, sadistic scheme?_ She’s never known Dukat to enjoy such roundabout methods of humiliation, but she can think of more outlandish things. It seems, at least, within the bounds of reason, even if it doesn’t seem in character. He’s Cardassian, after all. What variety of sadism is truly out of character for him?

The lift doors slide open, and if the staring were intrusive before, it’s nothing compared to now. This time, soldiers really do stop what they’re doing, hands halting in their work, conversations falling silent. Everyone turns to look at her. One soldier sneers, giving her an obnoxious up-and-down look. One wrinkles his nose, as though he finds the smell of her repugnant. One even puts his hand on his phaser, as though there’s any harm she could pose to him.

But before anyone can say a word, Dukat’s voice booms across the room:

“Professor Tora,” he says, from the top of the stairs. “Welcome. Right on time.”

Naprem’s eyes dart to him, and he smiles, slow and smug. He’s standing on the raised platform of his office, shoulders back, obnoxiously proud; Glinn Damar stands just slightly behind him. After a moment, he raises a browridge expectantly. Naprem looks around, confused, then realizes he must be waiting for her. She swallows again and crosses the room as quickly as she can without running, keeping her eyes trained on the floor. She hurries up the stairs to his side.

Dukat turns to the rest of the room. “Everyone, as you were.” He looks down at her and holds out his arm. The doors to his office slide open. “After you, Professor.”

Naprem goes in ahead of him, cheeks flushed; she’s strangely conscious of him moving behind her, ears piqued for anything sinister.

 _If he tries anything_ , she tells herself, _if he tries anything..._

But, true to form, he does nothing - he steps carefully around her and drops into his chair behind the desk. Glinn Damar comes to stand beside Naprem, hands folded behind his back. Naprem tries not to look at him askance but she can’t help it - she’s never really seen him up close before. His thick lips make his characteristic scowl look more like a pout.

“So good of you to join us,” Dukat says, folding his hands, hooking his foot over his knee.

Naprem sighs a little through her nose. “You did order me to, sir.”

Dukat whisks his hand through the air, as though shooing her words away.

“Damar,” he says. “Where are we, this morning?”

“Sir,” Damar says, glancing at Naprem and shaking his head. “I strenuously object to this. This information is for your ears only.”

“Damar,” Dukat says, patiently. “Professor Tora is my personal aide. As far as you’re concerned, her ears _are_ my ears.” He gestures for him to continue. “Now. If you have no further objections…”

Damar takes a deep breath, and then, like Naprem before him, lets it out through his nose. “Yes, sir.”

Naprem doesn’t know where to look as Damar delivers his report. Dukat has his eyes on Damar, watching him with rapt attention. He’s resting his sharp chin on his knuckle and his thumb, idly wagging his foot back and forth where it rests along his knee. Damar, for his part, delivers his report with an air of icy disapproval directed towards her in particular. Where is she supposed to be looking, she wonders? The floor? Dukat? That seems a little awkward when he’s not looking back at her. She purses her lips and laces her hands together behind her back. The edge of his desk, she decides, is a safe enough place. It assures that she’s looking forward without staring directly at him for a prolonged period of time…

“Consider it done,” Dukat says, and just then, she realizes she’s been so busy figuring out where she’s supposed to be looking that she hasn’t been paying any attention to what Damar’s been saying. She muscles down her panic as Dukat’s eyes flick over to her, ostensibly to measure her engagement. “Which brings us to the Gallitep contingent - have the men been removed from rotation?”

“Yes, sir,” Damar says, folding his arms behind his back. “It’s as you suspected. Many of them appear to have no respect for your authority.”

Dukat puts his hands out in a ‘well, I told you, didn’t I?’ sort of way. Naprem narrowly suppresses the urge to roll her eyes, but only because she sees his gaze wander to her again and she knows he’ll notice.

“To think, Damar - that I accepted those men into our ranks with such simple expectations of their conduct. Was it too much, do you think?”

“All due respect, sir, this would appear to be a coordinated effort to undermine your authority. I suspect Gul Darhe’el sent these men with the explicit purpose of securing the Prefecture for himself.”

“That thought had occurred to me, as well.” Dukat leans back in his chair. “But these aren’t the sorts of claims we can make without sufficient evidence, Damar.”

Damar nods. “Gil Lukin and I are on it, sir.”

Dukat brings his hands together with a clap. “Excellent. Good man. With any luck, we can resolve this problem quickly and quietly. Now,” he says, and he swivels his gaze around to Naprem - it feels as though he’s switched a spotlight on, overhead. “Professor. Did you have any luck ascertaining what, if anything, the women attacked knew about this alleged conspiracy?”

Naprem opens her mouth, but the words struggle to find their way out. “I… Not yet.”

Dukat raises a browridge and she flushes with embarrassment. “They know something,” she says, more forcefully. “But they weren’t...very receptive. When I returned last night.”

“Sir,” Damar says. “The women are a dead end. Whatever knowledge they have, they’ve shared.”

“With whom?” Naprem asks, her sarcasm jumping out before she can stop it. She doesn’t like hearing the word _‘dead’_ in the same sentence as _‘the women.’_

Damar looks offended. “With the interrogator.”

Anger flares in Naprem’s chest. She casts a disbelieving glare at Dukat.

“You had them _interrogated?_ ”

“It’s standard procedure,” Dukat says, calmly. “It’s my understanding that they were treated with an appropriate level of compassion.”

“ _An appropriate level of compassion?_ ” Naprem says, rife with disbelief. “Well, I can see why they weren’t receptive - you’ve been treating them like criminals! They’re _victims!_ ”

“It’s standard procedure,” Damar repeats, looking shocked that this is allowed to go on.

But Dukat looks utterly unbothered by Naprem’s outburst. “Professor,” he says, “I invite you to handle these women however you’d like. But the window of opportunity for them to prove useful in this endeavor is growing very small.”

“I’ll talk to them again,” Naprem says, struggling to keep her real opinions to herself.

Dukat extends his hands again. “Whatever you’d like. I am, after all, a man of infinite compassion - but I have a planet to run. They have until tonight. After that...”

 _After that, they’re on their own_ , he might as well say. This time Naprem really does roll her eyes - she closes them so he won’t see. So much for his ‘infinite compassion.’

“I’ll do what I can, sir,” she says.

“Excellent,” Dukat says. Then, to Damar he says: “Is that all?”

“Yes, sir.” Damar’s still looking askance at Naprem, as though her very presence offends him.

“Professor?” Dukat says, looking to her expectantly. “Anything to report?”

Naprem blinks, put on the spot. She wasn’t expecting him to ask, but she also doesn’t want to say nothing. She fights the urge to bite her lip. “Not apart from what’s already been discussed, sir.”

Dukat looks slightly disappointed but tips his head. “Very well. Damar. We’ll reconvene for rounds in five minutes.”

Damar nods, curtly. “Yes, sir.” He gives Naprem a look and then walks out of the room. It’s as the doors close behind him that she finally comes up with something to say.

“There’s-- There’s one thing,” she says. Dukat looks back at her, expectantly. “I have reason to believe that the soldiers from Gallitep may have preyed on some of the women working the promenade. Before this.”

“The comfort women, you mean?”

Naprem tips her head the same way she saw him do. “A friend of mine mentioned it. She wouldn’t confirm or deny that it had happened, but she mentioned that they’d had run-ins with such men before. That it was… an ongoing problem, under the previous Prefect.”

“I suppose she also mentioned that it would be almost impossible for us to punish such an act,” Dukat says.

“That wasn’t the way she put it.”

Dukat shrugs a little, as though he’s helpless to do anything about it. “How could we possibly hope to prove that this wasn’t a confession motivated by a dissatisfactory business transaction? Perhaps she was cheated money for the service she performed, or treated unkindly during the act. We’d struggle to identify if such a complaint was grounded in fact, or in finance.”

“Either of the complaints you described are deserving of your attention,” Naprem says, annoyed. “If any other business owner were cheated or abused, the authorities would have cause to intervene.”

“If they were Cardassian, perhaps,” Dukat agrees.

Naprem purses her lips, hands knotting into fists behind her back.

“You know,” she says, looking him in the eye. “I find it deeply disingenuous to acknowledge problems one has no intention of solving.”

Dukat looks back at her, both wary and unflinching.

“Intention and ability are two very different things,” he says.

“Perhaps for some,” she agrees, and she sees his eyes narrow with distaste.

Before he can answer, his desk chimes. He looks down, skims the alert, and stands from his desk. He plucks a PADD from its resting spot near his terminal, and presents it to her. She pauses, surprised, and takes it, hesitantly.

“What’s this?” she asks.

“Your new PADD,” Dukat says. “You’ll need it, as we complete our rounds.”

“ _My_ PADD?” she repeats, wondering if she misheard him. She looks down at it, stunned. She reaches up to hold it in both hands. It’s so much lighter than the ones she used to use at Dutan University - much newer than the banged up old models they hand off to her in Records. When the screen lights up, she can see a hundred foreign options on the homescreen; things security protocols have prevented her from ever seeing before, even on her Records terminal. It’s untouched, frighteningly new - there isn’t a single fingerprint on the screen’s matte surface. As the screen dims, she can make out her own reflection in greater detail than she’s seen in years.

When she looks up, Dukat’s watching her expectantly.

“Is something the matter?” he asks.

She looks down at it again, wondering if she ought to be honest.

“...it’s been thirty years since I’ve owned a PADD,” she says.

She looks up at him again. The wariness is gone from his face, but he doesn’t look pitying either, which is a relief. Instead, she struggles to name the expression he wears - as though he’s almost proud of himself for being responsible for all that she’s feeling right now.

“Feel free to familiarize yourself with it,” he says. “It’s yours to use however you like...provided you also use it for work, that is.”

He turns to the office doors and she looks down at the PADD again.

_Hers._

The office doors slide open, and he looks back at her.

“Shall we?” he asks.

The weight of the PADD in her hand makes it easier, this time, to swallow her pride. She hurries to keep up with him, nodding, keeping her eyes down.

Maybe B’hava’el’s right about decent, she thinks - when was the last time her life was anything close to decent?

* * *

 

“ _Promenade_ ,” says the computer. The lift doors slide open. Dukat puts out his arm to hold them there.

“After you, Professor,” he says.

Even this late in the morning, the promenade is coursing with people. The mine workers have already headed into the ore processing units, but there’s a constant hustle-and-bustle as workers haul ore and raw materials between stations, as overseers bark orders, and as those on night shift - Cardassian and Bajoran alike - prepare to turn in for the afternoon. Store owners up and down the thoroughfare are opening up for the day, cleaning off their counters and setting up their display tables, chatting with soldiers as they pass.

Dukat seems to know where he’s going - he struts along with a sinoraptor’s confidence, and Naprem follows in his wake simply because it’s the easiest way to travel. They walk down a spiral staircase to the main level.

“Every morning,” he tells her, “I do rounds of the promenade. I find it’s good for maintaining a high standard of conduct from the business owners.”

“What does that entail?” Naprem asks.

“Usually nothing more than a simple conversation,” Dukat says. “An exchange of pleasantries, a polite inquiry into the state of their business… if they have any questions or concerns, I like to know about it. I’ll expect you to keep a record as we go, in case we learn anything that I’ll need to address when we return to Operations.”

Naprem nods; she expected as much. She opens the note-taking application on her PADD, still a little star-struck by it. Then, she thinks of something else. She glances up at the back of his head, wondering if she ought to put it forth.

“Do you suppose any of them have had run ins with…” She’s not sure how secretive she ought to keep all this. She struggles to think of a good turn of phrase. “...with the unruly soldiers?”

Dukat pauses, turning his head a little.

“I suppose it could be to our benefit to ask,” he says. He nods a little. “It’s a good thought, Professor.”

She nods a little, trying not to be flattered by that.

They come to their first stop: a barbershop she’s never come within twenty feet of, owned by one of the largest Cardassians she’s ever seen. He shoulders his way out to greet them, slumping and shuffling so his head doesn’t bump the ceiling.

“Minus,” Dukat says, with a nod. Naprem sees him lean back just a little, pushing up on his digitigrade legs so that he’s closer to his full height. “Good morning.”

“Prefect,” Minus says, ducking his head. “It’s an honor, as always.” His eyes slide over Naprem and his mouth twists with distaste.

“I presume business yesterday went smoothly,” Dukat says, clearly ignoring it.

“It did,” Minus agrees. “I’ve sent the figures ahead to the Business Registry.”

“Very good,” Dukat says. “Anything to report?”

“No, sir. I expect traffic to pick up within the next few hours. A few of the boys are clearly in need of a trim if they’re planning to remain within military regulations.”

“You have a keen business sense, Minus,” Dukat says with a grin. “I admire that.”

And that's it. Naprem looks up from her notes, expecting more, but Dukat's already moving on. She has to trot to keep up with him; he has yet to settle back to his natural height, and he towers over her and the other Bajorans until he finally sinks back into his heels like nothing happened, flexing his shoulders.

It goes on like that; they move from the barbershop to the grocery, then to the Dockmaster’s, then to the tech resale outlet. Each meeting goes more or less the same.

“Good morning,” Dukat will say.

“Prefect,” they all say back, before uniformly bowing their heads - every one of them, every last one! Is that how Cardassian civilians greet all men in uniform? Do they practice? Are there classes? “You honor us.” Such formal language, too! It’s absurd!

And Dukat never seems fazed by it. He carries on as though this is exactly what he expected. He asks them small, pithy questions, and they give him small, pithy answers. The tech resaler drones on and on about the increase in service requests. The grocer complains of an unruly customer a few days prior. Dukat nods sympathetically, studiously, and assures them that these matters have his full and undivided attention. Not once does he ask directly if any of them have seen anything unusual, heard anything suspicious. Each meeting feels shorter and less thorough than the last.

As they come out of the Assayer’s office, Naprem can’t hold her tongue anymore.

“Are you actually going to ask any of them if they know anything?” It comes out more biting than she’d like.

“Watch your tone,” Damar warns her.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Dukat asks, as though Damar didn’t say a thing.

“It looks like you’re expecting them to read your mind,” she says.

“I’m asking how business has been,” Dukat says, frowning.

“That could mean anything!” Naprem says, all but throwing up her hands.

“I can’t ask them _directly_ ,” Dukat says, frowning even deeper. “We’re ferreting out a conspiracy, not announcing a dinner party.”

“That doesn’t mean you don’t ask,” she says. “It means you don’t do it directly. We haven’t learned anything, and we’re halfway around the promenade!”

“We’ve learned plenty,” Dukat says, squaring his shoulders. “We know, for example, that the barber has seen a number of men out of uniform. The tech resale outlet has seen an increased demand for refurbished phasers, though I’ve received no corresponding authorization requests. The grocer reported that he’d had a verbal altercation with a man matching the description of one of the soldiers from the night before last - and he had visible bruising beneath the collar. I’d imagine he’s being menaced.” He gestures to her PADD. “All of which I’m sure your notes corroborate.”

Naprem blinks a little, feeling humbled. She glances down at her PADD.

“I didn’t see the bruising,” she says, embarrassed. The rest of it, of course, is there - just as he said.

“Ah,” Dukat says. “Well, that’s hardly your fault. I know Bajoran eyesight can’t compare to mine.”

Naprem flushes so deep her throat starts to feel numb.

“Well,” she says, because she needs to talk over the ringing in her ears, “all that speaks to what we’re looking for. They might even be planning an armed insurrection. But... surely we need more concrete proof.”

Dukat nods. “At this point, it’s all conjecture. Unless we can get concrete evidence that they planned some sort of insurrection…”

“Lukin may have something,” Damar says, reviewing a message on his own PADD.

Dukat nods again. “We’ll have to cut this short. Tora,” he says, turning to her. “I want your notes from this morning - forward them to my personal terminal and head back to Records.”

“What do we need?” Naprem asks, still trying to recover from her embarrassment. “What precisely are we looking for? I-- I might have another lead I could pursue.”

Dukat surveys her for a moment, then tips his head in a ‘what could it hurt’ sort of way. “We need testimony that these men were planning to move against me. That they talked about it. What their plan was, in detail.”

“And anyone who could tell you that,” Naprem says. “They’d be entitled to your protection?”

“Of course,” Dukat says.

“Sir,” Damar says from behind him.

“Head back to Records when you’re finished,” Dukat says. “I’ll send someone for you.”

Naprem swallows around that painful knot of pride and nods.

“Yes, sir,” she says.

She swallows again as he’s walking away, holding her PADD tight to her side. She takes a breath and then turns and heads back the way they came. She can’t shake the bone-deep feeling of embarrassment, of being made an utter fool of. There’s a needling in her throat. Just for a second there, she felt useless to him, and it stung. She’s supposed to be clever - she’s here to be clever.

She presses her free hand to her temple, masks it by brushing away her bangs. After a second, she reaches up again, pressing her fingers to the scar carved into her brow.

She’s not sure if she wants this job; but she’s sure she doesn’t want to _lose_ this job. She can swallow her pride as many times as she likes but it’s still _there_ , sitting like a stone in the place where her heart should be.

It’s not yet noon - instinct tells her B’hava’el will be at Quark’s, making her last tips before turning in for the day. She puts her head down and pulls her hand back down to her side.

She wants to be right, this time. Dukat can’t be the only one of them with tricks.

* * *

 

Quark’s, as always, is a shock of activity, even at this time of the morning. The whole establishment hums with an otherworldly energy that’s only accentuated by the garish color palette and the bright lights, and the ever-present scent of smoke, alcohol, and perfume. Soldiers coming off the night shift surround every table and line the bar, laughing and carousing, casting hungry looks at the dabo girls, each of whom glitters like living gold. Dabo girls always manage to look happier than anyone Naprem has ever seen, big smiles glistening, big laughs echoing through the room. They’re like joy incarnate, all bubbly, vivacious energy. Naprem doesn’t know how they do it. She hasn’t been able to conjure a smile like that in years. She sees one girl burst into infectious giggles at the exact same time she yanks a soldier’s hand off her thigh. The soldier doesn’t even seem to notice, caught up in her laughter.

B’hava’el is, of course, an attraction all her own. She’s been up all night ‘entertaining,’ but she still manages to put on a show for the knot of men that surround her, all clamoring for her ‘last call’ of the night. Her flaxen hair is still done up in an ornate braid, exposing her neck and shoulders in that way she claims drives Cardassians wild. From the way her suitors are looking her up and down, it’s clearly working. They swarm her like cobras around a snake charmer, each one swaying in turn, hypnotized by her full breasts and her carefully practiced coquettish looks.

Naprem stands awkwardly in the doorway, trying to work up the nerve to approach her. A few soldiers come in behind her, and she scurries out of their way, taking shelter at the end of the bar -- this, she quickly realizes, is a mistake. Standing within three feet of a bar is a surefire way to summon Quark from whatever netherdimension he calls home.

“Miss _Tora_ ,” Quark says, far too loudly for her liking. “Well, it’s about time.”

Naprem wrinkles her nose and avoids eye contact, but he somehow appears right beside her nonetheless. She puts her hand up to shield her eyes from view. “Go away, Quark. I’m not here for you.”

“There’s a shock,” Quark says, leaning on the bar. “And after I came all the way over here to congratulate you.”

Naprem narrows her eyes and takes away her hand. “Congratulate me? For what?”

Quark raises his eyebrows and grins, showing off the jagged, uneven points of his teeth. “Why, for the promotion, of course. Everyone’s talking about it. Tora Naprem: personal aide to the Prefect. That’s a new one, I’ve got to hand it to you.”

Naprem scowls, instantly catching the stench of insinuation on his breath. “You know, Quark, some people manage not to mix business and pleasure.”

“Dullards, every last one of them.” He puts his hands on the counter, leaning over it. “And I’ll have you know, my offer still stands. Hell, if you sign tonight, I’ll triple your wages. If you’re the Prefect’s type, I bet you’ll go over great with his men.”

“Triple nothing is still nothing,” Naprem says, showing her own teeth for good measure.

“Listen,” Quark says, undeterred. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity here.”

“If I had a drink for every time I’d heard that, I’d have one to throw in your face right about now,” Naprem says.

“Quark,” B’hava’el says, appearing at Naprem’s elbow in her typical way. “Go crawl back to your hole already.”

“You _females_ have no sense of opportunity,” Quark says. “I’m a man of the people, you know - I’m doing a public service.”

“Yeah? Do _me_ a service and get lost,” B’hava’el says. She puts a hand on Naprem’s back - she’s warm to the touch, and the smell of her floral perfume is captivating. Naprem pulls away from the bar with her, relieved.

“Hey,” B’hava’el says. “What’re you doing in here?”

“I was looking for you,” Naprem says.

“Well, you found me.” B’hava’el frowns a little, reaching up to push Naprem’s bangs away from her scarred eyebrow and tuck them behind her ear. “What’s going on?”

Naprem looks around -- several pairs of eyes look back, utterly guileless. She takes B’hava’el’s dewy wrist in hand.

“Let’s get a table,” she says. “Somewhere in back.”

B’hava’el nods and moves with her, but Quark sticks out his finger and calls out to them.

“Hey! Tables are for paying customers only!”

“Call it a promotion gift,” B’hava’el yells back. “It’s on the house!”

She lifts her drink and the dabo girls follow her lead, whooping and shouting. The whole bar follows suit, most customers not seeming to even know what’s going on but being all too happy to join in the revelry. Quark hisses with annoyance and shields his ears, struggling to maintain an amiable facade. In the meantime, B’hava’el hustles Naprem to the back corner table, where he’ll struggle most to uproot them.

“I'm sorry,” Naprem says, sitting down across from her. “I know you're working.”

B’hava’el shrugs. “So are you. What's going on? You alright?”

Naprem takes a breath and purses her lips. “I’m-- Yes. No. ...I don’t know. Do you remember what we were talking about last night?”

B’hava’el arches her brow and shrugs a little. “What about it?”

Naprem sighs. She's jittering one of her legs. She crosses it behind the other to try and keep it still. “I'm sure you've noticed that the soldiers from Gallitep have been taken off rotation.”

“Yeah,” B’hava’el says, her voice lifted expectantly. “I noticed. Last night was the easiest shift I’ve had in months. I assume that's your doing.”

“Partially.” Naprem can't seem to stop jimmying her leg. “Listen… Gul Dukat is looking for proof that the soldiers from Gallitep were planning to rise up against him. You've had run-ins with them, haven't you? Have you heard anything? Anything at all.”

“Anything? _Cheli_ ,” B’hava’el says, shaking her head a little. “That's a big ask. Say I have -- I tell you, it gets out, suddenly I need protection. They're not the only guys thinking that way, y’know?”

“I know,” Naprem says, though she didn't, and the thought disturbs her. She leans in closer, lowering her voice. “I don’t want to put you in danger.”

“You know what it takes to be an independent contractor around here? Look around,” B’hava’el says, gesturing to the bar. “You see any girl in here working for herself? It’s just me, going it alone. And I do that so the money I make, I keep. There’s no ‘security’ taking half my pull, there’s no grimy bar owner giving me the tips and keeping the rest for himself. But that means--” She stops, forcing her voice back down. “That means I can’t go making a name for myself as someone who needs shutting up. Y’know? I have to keep my head down.”

“I know that.”

“I can’t be Dukat’s star witness in this thing,” B’hava’el says. “I do that, the next day I’m going to have to find myself an umbrella. Y’know what I mean? Whatever you get from me, my name can’t be on it. My name can’t be anywhere near it.”

“What if I told you I could do that?” Naprem says. “What if I told you I could put your testimony in someone else’s mouth? Someone far removed from you.”

B’hava’el watches her for a moment. She shifts in her chair, shrugging her wrap a little closer.

“B’hava’el,” Naprem says, because she can feel herself losing her. “These men are hurting people. _Our_ people. Honestly, I could take or leave Dukat, but don’t you deserve more nights like last night? Don’t you deserve to live free of the fear of being… _violated?_ ”

“And do you honestly think that’ll go away with them?”

“I know it won’t,” Naprem says, trying to keep her voice measured. “But the men who do this… they should be punished. They should be punished to the greatest extent of the law, and barring that, they should be sent far, far away from the people they hurt. If we can prove they were planning a coupe… that’s _treason_. We could get them packed up and sent back to Cardassia Prime. You’d never see them again as long as you lived.”

B’hava’el gives her a plaintive look, brows creased.

“I don’t think I have what you need,” she says.

“I don’t know if anyone does,” Naprem says. “But I know you have something. Don’t you?”

B’hava’el sighs, giving in. “I don’t know. Maybe.” She runs a tongue over her lips, choosing her words carefully. “A gal I know - not me.” She jerks her head to one of the girls at the end of the bar, one of the ones making the room ring with merry-making. Naprem fights the surge of disgust and anger that roils in her gut. “They got her early. A few of them. She’s got protection, so they managed to chase them off after a while, but… They threatened to take it to Dukat. Soldiers laughed in their face. Said we shouldn’t be worried about Dukat, because once Darhe’el got here things were going to run differently. They were always saying things like that.”

She puts her hand on the table, turning her head, an angry, faroff look on her face. “Everyone knew they were gunning for Darhe’el to make Prefect. And they run together, I’ll tell you that. Tirek’s old crew, you can’t tell them from any of the other soldiers on the station. But the soldiers from Gallitep - they stick out, you know? Have since they got here.”

Naprem nods, knowing precisely what she means. “They haven’t integrated in the same way.”

“Right,” B’hava’el nods. “A Cardassian’s a Cardassian, y’know? Wherever they get sent, they do as they do. But not Darhe’el’s boys.” She swallows. “You always know them. They… make a name for themselves.” She shrugs. “But that’s all I got, _cheli._ I few offhanded comments. If they were making plans for some kind of…” She glances around, and hunches further in. “... _insurrection?_ I don’t know about it.”

Naprem nods slowly, chewing her lip. She’s thinking. “There aren’t many places they could meet on the station where they wouldn’t be overheard.”

“Right,” B’hava’el agrees. “It’s not like a congregation that big can rent out a room on the habitat ring without raising suspicion. And if they mentioned anything around anyone else, they’d get turned in for sure. I don’t know what kind of loyalty Dukat cultivates, but I know for sure none of the others are looking to get nabbed as an accessory for treason. Y’know, when I was shacked up with that Legate, he used to tune into the trials -- they televise them, broadcast ‘em on the extranet. And if you think what they do to us is nasty, you should see what they do to their own people.” She makes a face, shuddering with disgust. “After seeing a few of those, I thought about becoming a vedek. Closing up shop for life. It’s the kind of stuff where just watching it can make it feel like your soul’s turning inside out. And treason’s a big ticket item with them.”

“I have some experience with that myself.”

B’hava’el raises her eyebrows, and sucks her teeth when Naprem doesn’t offer more. “You and your mysterious past, Tora. Someday you’re gonna tell me, y’know.”

“Maybe,” Naprem says, but she knows she won’t. There’s no point.

She bites her lip, returning to the topic at hand. “So they wouldn’t just need somewhere they wouldn’t be overheard, but somewhere where the meeting wouldn’t be suspicious.”

B’hava’el shrugs. “Like I said. You got me.”

Naprem sighs again. “It’s alright. I can still use what you’ve told me.” She frowns, folding her arms on the table. “Someone has to know more about this than you do. They’re too arrogant not to have been sloppy.”

Just then, Quark sets a cup down between them like a gavel.

“It’s not polite to whisper in public,” he says.

“It’s not polite to linger where you’re not wanted, either,” B’hava’el says, snatching the other drink off his tray. “But you don’t let that stop you, do you?”

“Ladies,” Quark says. “I’ve been very patient. Now you can either pay for the table and the drinks, or you can vacate the premises. Which will it be?”

B’hava’el sucks her teeth, and tucks a hand into her cleavage. “So much for your sense of public service,” she says, pulling out a warm strip of gold-pressed latinum. Quark reaches for it instantly and B’hava’el swats his hand away, holding it just out of reach. “For this, I better get another drink.”

Quark snatches the latinum out of her hand and pockets it with care. “For this, you’re lucky I’m feeling generous enough to bring you one.”

“Oh, please,” Naprem says. “She brought in half your clientele.”

“Maybe for the morning rush,” Quark says. “But lunch is just around the corner. And I don’t need you two occupying valuable counterspace with your conspiracy theories.”

For just a second, Naprem feels a jolt of fear - he heard them. Prophets, he _heard them_ , from halfway across the bar, in a room full of people.

But B’hava’el looks completely unsurprised. “Those big ears are gonna get you in trouble someday, Quark,” she says.

Something in Naprem relaxes - she’s right, of course. Quark’s a toad, certainly, but he’s not dangerous. Not really. Hell, Naprem thinks, glancing down at the three-layer Musilla Twilight cocktail he brought her at what must be a discount; he can be almost decent when he’s not paying attention.

And then - she pauses again, a slow suspicion dawning on her. She looks up at him, eyes slightly narrowed.

“Quark,” she says. “You heard all that from way over there?”

“‘Heard’ is an understatement,” Quark says. “You’re going have to be a little more cunning to beat a pair of Ferengi ears, sweetheart.”

Naprem smiles, all slow, like she’s really quite impressed with him.

“I suppose so,” she says, shimmying her shoulders just a little to and fro. “You must hear an awful lot of what goes on with ears like those.”

“Knowing my customers’ business is good for business,” he grins. “Rule of Acquisition, Number 22: ‘ _Wise men can hear profit on the wind._ ’”

“How interesting,” Naprem says, buttering up her voice the way she’s heard B’hava’el do a hundred thousand times. “And I can see business is good - to think, when you showed up here a few months ago, this was nothing but a little hole in the wall. Now… why, I think it’s the busiest place on the promenade, no matter what the hour of day.”

B’hava’el’s curious look has morphed into one of quiet, insidious delight. She props her chin on her hand and joins in. “It’s true,” she coos. “It’s really so impressive. I think on an average day you must see half the men in the regiment.”

“Half?” Quark chuffs. “Try eighty percent. Not all men drink, not all men gamble - hell, not all men appreciate a beautiful woman. But any man who doesn’t like one likes the others. That’s just nature - and that’s what I provide. You see?”

“Yes,” Naprem says. “You really are a public servant, Quark. I like that about you. Now,” she says, pushing her drink aside and taking him by the arm, “what say you dedicate that sense of duty... to solving our little problem.”

Her touch seems to lull Quark into a hazy sense of security - so much so that it takes a moment or two for him to register what she’s doing. It’s only after a second that his back goes rigid.

“Now, hold on,” he says, pulling her hand off his arm.

“Quark,” Naprem says, patiently. “I know you know what we’ve been talking about. Just like I know that, by sheer coincidence, you’ve probably overhead exactly the kind of thing I’m looking for.”

“I really couldn’t say.” Quark squirms out of her grip, but B’hava’el’s up before he can get too far. “Now, I expect this from her, Tora,” Quark says, nodding towards B’hava’el. “But you? It’s enough to make a man cynical.”

“Cry me a river,” says B’hava’el. “You said it yourself. You see eighty percent of the station’s soldiers in here on an average day -- and you hear everything they say. It’d be easy enough for the boys from Gallitep to meet up here in broad daylight. Nobody’d suspect a thing. And while they’re over here carousing, and making their plans--”

“--and paying me _good, clean latinum_ \--” Quark interjects.

“--you hear every word they say,” Naprem finishes.

“I like a good story as much as the next man,” Quark says, giving her a look. “But you can’t prove anything. This is a private establishment, and I’m not a Cardassian citizen - you can’t compel me to testify.”

“Oh, no?” Naprem asks. “Tell me, Quark - I don’t see any other bars on the promenade. Why is that?”

Quark stares at her a second, then blanches.

“You wouldn’t dare…”

“It couldn’t be that you signed an...exclusivity contract with Gul Dukat. Could it?”

“Now, hold on!” Quark says, and this time B’hava’el holds him at bay before he can get too close. “That’s blackmail, Tora, and you know it.”

“Blackmail?” Naprem says, batting her eyelashes. “I don’t know what you mean. It was just a question. I’m just saying - hypothetically, of course - that if… _somehow_ … something were to happen to Gul Dukat… Well. You know how Cardassians can be when it comes to honoring their agreements. Gul Dukat was the first Prefect to even consider such a thing. How likely do you think it is that the next Prefect is going to be so open-minded?”

“You’re threatening my contract,” Quark says.

“I’m not threatening your contract, Quark. _You_ are.”

Quark looks somewhere between disgusted and impressed with her; there’s a hitch in his upper lip. He shakes his head slowly and takes a few step back from the table. Then, he whips his hand above his head like a lasso.

“Alright, alright,” he shouts. “Everybody out! We’re closed.”

There’s several boos and cries of dismay. B’hava’el watches the chaos with glee, leaning against the nearest column. Naprem takes a sip of her drink, smiling a little. She pauses, pulling it away from her lips with a groan of satisfaction.

“Oh, Quark,” she says, “this is wonderful.”

Quark just gives her a look.

“That’s how he likes them, huh?” he says. “Remind me never to ask you anything else about the Prefect’s _tastes_ , Tora. I don’t think I can stomach his palette.”

* * *

She doesn’t head straight to Records - she finishes her drink and says her goodbyes to B’hava’el, then takes her story to the women on the habitat ring. They’re less impressed with it than she hoped -- especially with it diffused between the five of them -- but a night’s rest has done them all wonders.

“You’re sure this will be enough?” Tolo Jarain asks.

“Enough to keep you out of harm’s way,” Naprem says. “I still have more to do. But you’ll be protected for as long as it takes to indict them. That means no work, no mixing with the general population. You’ll be safe.”

Kanya and the Tolo sisters share a look, but they all nod solemnly.

“You didn’t have to do all this for us,” Oyam says, reaching out to take Naprem by the hand.

“I wanted to,” Naprem says.

“Is it true that you’re going to be Gul Dukat’s aide?” Fekak asks.

Naprem takes a breath to speak, and finds herself at a loss for words.

“...yes,” she says, finally.

Fekak nods a little. She’s twiddling something in her lap -- the same thing from yesterday, Naprem would guess. She catches sight of it once or twice; it’s a smooth, grey object, smaller than her hand.

“You can do a lot in that position,” Oyam says, but her voice is strained.

“More than I could do before,” Naprem agrees, but she can’t muster much confidence either.

The guard interrupts them, leaning in through the doorway.

“Tora,” he says, sharply. “The Prefect wants you in his office.”

Naprem sighs. This is her life now, she realizes. The Prefect wants her in his office, so up she gets, and to his office she goes.

“I’ll be in touch,” she tells the women. “Please… let me know if there’s anything you need.”

“Thank you,” Kanya says, nodding.

“ _Thank_ you,” says Oyam, more intensely.

Naprem takes her PADD and heads out the door, wishing all that had felt a little better. She’s about halfway down the hall when Damar rounds the corner so quickly that he almost barrels straight into her.

“Glinn Damar,” she says, too surprised to be properly stiff.

His face lights up with a quiet exasperation. “Where have you been?”

“Working,” she says, haltingly. “What’s going on?”

Damar turns to the two soldiers beside him, speaking quickly and firmly. “Secure this corridor. Lock it down. I don’t want anyone in or out without explicit authorization from the Prefect. Do you understand?”

“We obey, sir,” says one of the soldiers. They push past Naprem, moving out into the hall.

“Follow me,” Damar says, still not answering her question. He turns and heads back the way he came. Naprem’s forced to trot to keep up with him -- each of his strides is twice the length of hers, and he clearly has no interest in accommodating her short legs.

“Where are we going?” she asks, more urgently. “What’s going on?”

“ _Dukat to Damar_ ,” Dukat’s voice says, from Damar’s gauntlet-mounted comm link.

“Damar here,” he says, coming to a stop in front of the lift. “I’ve secured Tora, sir. We’re heading up.”

“ _Good. Don’t waste any time, Damar. I want both of you in Operations, immediately._ ”

“I obey, sir,” Damar says, and the lift doors slide open. He steps in, and Naprem’s close behind him.

“Operations,” Damar barks at the lift. The doors slide shut and the elevator glides upwards.

“Damar,” she says, panic building. “What’s going on? What’s happening?”

Damar purses his lips, pulling his hands behind his back, clearly struggling to maintain a disaffected air.

“Gul Darhe’el just arrived,” he says, voice kept forcibly even. “We need to secure the station. As you’ve heard, Gul Dukat has requested your presence in Operations.”

Naprem suddenly feels as though someone’s shut off life support to the habitat ring. The name vibrates inside of her head like a tuning fork, a sharp ringing that drowns out everything else.

“Gul Darhe’el,” she repeats, breathless with panic and disbelief. Her heart is hammering in her chest.

“The Butcher of Gallitep himself,” Damar mutters. “As though this day couldn’t get any worse…”

Somehow, the lift continues to move, hurtling ever faster upwards. Naprem looks up, then down at the floor, her insides sloshing around like paint in a can. She squeezes her eyes shut and tries, without much success, to remember how to breathe.

 _The Butcher of Gallitep_ , she thinks. _The Butcher of Gallitep himself._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cheli: "cheh-lee." n. used as a term of endearment or affectionate form of address, especially with children. Similar to the English "baby."


	3. First Contact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tora Naprem meets the Butcher of Gallitep himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was really... I swear this was going to be three chapters. I swear. 
> 
> D'rorah both beta'd this chapter, and provided the chapter title. Much love and gratitude. It's also her fault this fic is going on longer, but she's right that the pacing is better this way.
> 
> For anyone with questions, I'm using a Cardassian uniform redesign in this fic. I've posted the ref pic for that in the previous chapter.

_The Butcher of Gallitep by[shevathegun](https://78.media.tumblr.com/d5493a2e1c9c6945a7142b7d9a0be1b0/tumblr_owuvq6XK2w1rux1dgo1_1280.png)_

* * *

 

Everyone knows of him, or so it seems - there isn't a Bajoran alive today that doesn't know the name ‘Darhe’el,’ though there are plenty who wish they didn’t.

Early on, the Union tried to keep it quiet; the existence of extermination camps would have seriously undermined their contention, early on, that they were only there to help. But once they'd fully mobilized and internment of the greater part of the Bajoran public was underway, there was no real reason to hide them anymore. The news circulated like a ghost story as survivors transferred between camps. Early on, Naprem remembers doubting that such a thing was even possible - everything had been so convoluted, it was impossible to be sure if anything you'd heard was true unless you'd seen it for yourself. _How could such an abomination be allowed to exist?_ she wondered. There were still Bajorans in government. How could any of them allow such a fate to befall any of their countrymen?

But now, the spectre of Gallitep looms like a living hell on the horizon, a living nightmare to which anyone could be exiled. Men and women buried alive; children tortured to death in front of their mothers; women raped in front of their husbands; people starved and branded, worked to death, beaten and burned alive, all for the Cardassians’ sick amusement. What few survivors escape it struggle to speak of anything else. Naprem has worked in Records since Cibawea. She's seen the files, all meticulously kept. She knows it's true.

By the time the lift doors open, she has to put her hand out to keep Damar from walking out.

“Wait,” she says. “Wait.” She's dizzy - her throat feels thick. There's a ringing just behind her ears. Her stomach constricts, painfully. She stands very still, sure that if she takes a step, she's going to throw up. “I'm sorry,” she says, instantly wishing she hadn't. “I just need a moment.”

“We don't have time,” Damar says, plainly.

He walks out without her, and she's forced to hurry after him. As soon as she does she regrets it. She stumbles a little as the lift shuts behind her. Prophets, she's going to vomit. She's going to vomit - she feels it, nausea pressing violently against the back of her throat, pulsing urgently in her gut and her brain. Damar doesn't slow down. Naprem forces herself to breathe and keeps going.

Operations is busier than she’s ever seen it. As the doors open, a wave of chaotic energy crashes at her feet, and without wanting to she’s caught in the undertow and dragged into the sea of it. As she walks into the room, following Damar, it catches in whorls along her face and above her head. She has the sensation of drowning in it. There seems to be - all at once - so much noise and fervor that she struggles to ascribe meaning to any of it. There are so many words that people’s sentences keep smashing into one another and breaking off into nonsensical bits of shrapnel. Cardassians are moving so quickly they keep barreling into one another, reaching over one another’s consoles, tripping over one another’s boots and tails, running out of the room and back in. Everyone seems to be shouting or snarling or showing their teeth.

And at the center of the whirlpool, shouting over all of it, is Dukat.

“I don't care _what_ he says, I want security tripled on the docking ring.” He points decisively to a pair of glinns, then jabs his finger at the door like a man ordering a dog. “Alomar! Micas!”

“We obey, sir!” The glinns jerk upright and rush out the door so quickly that Naprem feels a breeze as they pass.

“Damar!” he barks, and Damar goes to him immediately - Naprem follows because if she stays still, she thinks she might collapse. “Tora,” he says sharply, and instantly she wishes she had. “Why weren’t you in Records? I’ve had men looking for you for _half an hour._ ”

“I--” She gags on the gaggle of words that rise like a froth in the back of her mouth. “I--” _Don’t apologize._ She bites her tongue, fighting back jabs of panic that feel, suspiciously, like tears. _Don’t apologize._ “I was working - I was only doing what you told me, what you instructed me to do, _sir_ \--”

Dukat draws his hand up and for a split second she wonders, distantly, if he’s about to slap her. He doesn’t. “Enough.” He turns sharply, cape snapping behind him. “We’ll discuss it later. I expect you to be where I tell you to be when I tell you to be there, Professor. Remember that.”

Her fury comes like it always does, filling the cavernous space in her chest that the fear leaves - she reaches and it’s there, like a trusty pair of brass knuckles. “ _Sir,_ ” she says, raggedly. “I fail to understand why I’ve been asked to be _here_ , currently.”

Dukat stops mid-stride and turns to give her an incredulous stare.

“Professor,” he says, as though speaking to a particularly slow child. “Gul Darhe’el has just arrived, unannounced, and asked to come aboard the station. I can’t stop everything to explain to you all that that entails. You’re my personal aide. I expect you to be here to _aide me_.”

“All due respect,” Naprem interjects, before he can turn back around. “Sir. I don’t think I _should_ be here.”

Damar looks shocked - he peers between them, disbelieving. “I agree,” he says, like he thinks someone is pulling a prank on him.

Dukat frowns, narrowing his eyes. “And why not?”

“I don’t think it’s appropriate,” Naprem says, wishing she were saying so in the privacy of his office, instead of in the middle of Operations.

“Professor.” Dukat turns completely around to face her and steps closer in a way that’s clearly intended to intimidate, flexing his neck ridges in a dominance display. “That isn’t something I ask you to determine.”

“Yes it is!” Naprem snaps. “That’s my job! You made it my job! I’m your personal aide, it’s my duty to advise you, isn’t it? Well, I’m advising you to reconsider what message it sends to Gul Darhe’el of all people to walk into your Operations room and see an unsupervised Bajoran in the midst of things.”

“Finally, someone’s talking sense,” Damar mutters. He turns to Dukat, moving - perhaps inadvertently - to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Naprem. “He’s coming here to issue a direct challenge to you, sir.”

Dukat looks incensed. “And do you suppose it will strengthen my position to tailor my company not to my own need, but to the expectations of a man who has come to _challenge me?_ ” His features tighten and he glowers down at both of them. Naprem swallows, feeling Damar shift uncomfortably beside her. “It’s an act of submission. I don’t intend to submit to him. Do you?”

And then, of course, it comes blurting out before Naprem can stop it:

“I don’t want to be here.” It’s a breathless, desperate thing to say, and it frightens her to hear it, even from her own mouth. Dukat raises his browridges and Naprem struggles to catch the next thing but it jumps like a frog from her tongue. “Please. Please, I don’t want to-- I don’t want to be here. I don’t want him to see me.”

The anger fades out of Dukat’s face and he peers at her, confounded.

“Why?”

“Oh,” a voice says from the doorway, “you’ll find I have that effect on Bajoran scum. They cower at the mere thought of me.”

Naprem feels her entire body lock up all at once. It’s all she can do to will herself to turn around.

She takes him in while holding her breath: Darhe’el is short and stout, with all the markings of a man just past his prime. His short, square jaw is a complement to the round apples of his cheeks. He wears a constant expression of muted amusement, like a man who’s trying very hard not to laugh. As he walks slowly down the stairs, arms folded behind his back, soldiers move aside, bowing their heads the way she saw the civilians do. The room has gone from oppressively noisy to ominously quiet.

Naprem doesn’t know what to do - he’s looking right at her, and she seems to have lost the ability to move. Her limbs won’t move at her command.

It’s only as a shadow falls over her that she realizes Dukat’s stepped in front of her - he’s risen to his full height, shoulders back, chest thrust out.

“Gul Darhe’el,” he says, voice booming through the room, though he doesn’t seem to force it. He seems effortlessly, enviably calm; infuriatingly proud. From where she’s hidden behind him, Naprem sees a few soldiers lift their heads and look at him with various expressions of incredulousness and awe. “I see you’ve robbed me of the courtesy of meeting you on the docking ring.”

“Oh,” Darhe’el says, waving his hand in an overly magnanimous way. “I didn’t want to trouble you - it’s clear that you have very little time for fanfare. I imagine the Prefecture is keeping you…” He pauses at the base of the stairs, casting a weighty look around at soldiers, who were scrambling over one another not moments ago. “...very busy.”

“Yes,” Dukat says, “I suppose it must be difficult to understand the complexity of goings-on here for someone in your position.”

Darhe’el narrows his eyes and turns his head just so. He smiles in a particularly unfriendly way.

“Yes,” he says, “you’ll have to enlighten me. You never know when that sort of information may become useful.”

Dukat smiles back - just as unfriendly, but loose. Sprawling. Like he has few qualms about exposing how little he’s bothered by Darhe’el’s contempt.

“I have to say, Darhe’el - I’m surprised your position at Gallitep affords you the free time to visit us. Tell me, what brings you here to Terok Nor?”

“Ah,” Darhe’el says, pacing forward - he doesn’t have Dukat’s disaffected, smarmy air. Every step he takes is pointed. Calculated. His boots click every time they touch the floor, polished to a gleam. Each step he takes, a bolt of fear lodges itself firmly between Naprem’s shoulder blades. “That’s the benefit of having the best-trained men in the Union - Gallitep runs like a well-oiled machine. I can leave her for the moment in their capable hands while attend to this...alarming business.”

He stops not a few feet from Dukat. “It’s been brought to my attention, you see… that you’ve seen fit to lock up every member of the contingent I sent to reinforce this rattling scrapheap.”

Dukat makes a show of looking puzzled. “I struggle to see why that should concern you,” he says with a smile. “Unless, of course… you think the charges levied against them somehow involve you.”

Darhe’el smiles right back, showing his teeth. “Involve me? Why, of course they do. A man is always responsible for the conduct of those under his command - _past_ , and present.

“Speaking of which,” he says, and his gaze is levied on Naprem once again. “I had hoped that the rumors of a _Bajoran_ in your employ were mistaken.” He says the word with such crooning disdain - as though the hatred he holds for her and all her kin is something he enjoys to the fullest. He smiles slowly and it dawns on Naprem that she’s trembling - shaking from head to foot. “Though it’s clear from how she cowers that she knows her place better than you do.”

And in spite of everything - in spite of the way her bones are rattling beneath her skin, in spite of the surge of indignance she senses from Dukat, in spite of the way Darhe’el’s looking at her like he’d like nothing better than to take her apart right here and now - at the very pit of her stomach, Naprem feels a surge of fury.

She pushes her breath sharply out of her nose and clenches her fists. She sees Darhe’el smile in anticipation.

She turns, instead, to Dukat.

“Permission to speak, Gul Dukat.”

This clearly surprises both of them. Darhe’el’s browridges shoot up - Dukat pauses, open-mouthed, interrupted before he can deliver his own retort. He looks down at her, his face awash with curiosity. Even Damar looks at her askance.

“So granted,” Dukat says, not inawkwardly. He turns just so, allowing her a good view of Darhe’el while still keeping his body between them.

Naprem reaches for the anger and, as always, it’s there; a spark in the muddled darkness. She squares her shoulders and juts out her chin, in spite of her incessant trembling.

“I do not cower, sir,” she says, as strongly as she can.

“No?” Darhe’el says.

“No, sir.” She clenches her fists until her knuckles turn white.

“You should,” he says, as coolly as anyone can deliver such a threat - as though it’s tedious to have to say aloud. “Cardassian hearing may not be much to sneeze at, but our eyesight is impeccable.” He looks her up and down. “You’ve wanted nothing more than to run and hide from the minute I walked into this room. It’s admirable, really.” He leans in just so. “Prey ought to know it’s place.”

Dukat immediately reasserts himself between them. He glares at Darhe’el, leaning in himself to force him back.

“For someone whose reputation proceeds them, Gul Darhe’el - you seem awfully preoccupied with terrorizing those over whom you should feel _very_ secure.”

“I’d ask you not to presume to know my thoughts, sir,” Naprem bites out, stepping forward. Dukat allows her room, but remains at her side, preventing Darhe’el’s approach. Her voice rattles in her throat, but she forces herself to keep talking. “Respectfully, sir, if I appear fearful at your approach it is only out of concern for Gul Dukat, sir, who as I’m sure you can imagine is an extremely busy man - it is my duty to advise him, sir, and as it happens your presence here throws into jeopardy the continuity of his itinerary. _Sir._ Please know, sir, that _that_ is the only concern I have in your presence.”

Darhe’el seems almost impressed at her gall. “Are you implying, _girl_ , that my presence here is a nuisance?”

“I would never be so bold as to use that word, sir,” she says, though her teeth click together and her body feels like a mud house in an earthquake. “I’m sure you’ve arrived here unannounced with only the very best of intentions.”

Darhe’el stares at her, clearly taking a moment to size her up for the very first time. He turns to Dukat.

“You’re going to allow her to speak to me that way?”

Dukat shrugs a little, seeming unconcerned. “I acquired Tora for her intellect,” he says. “I value her opinion. And I find nothing objectionable with her conduct.”

Darhe’el watches him for a second and then tips his head, averting his eyes as though submitting to his opinion.

“Very well,” he says, and then, without a moment’s hesitation, he whips his hand back and swings at her.

Naprem ducks back with a shriek, but Dukat’s there before the strike can land. He catches Darhe’el’s wrist in the air and holds his arm aloft with a crushing force. Naprem hears Darhe’el hiss between his teeth.

“I have every right,” he snarls.

“Perhaps it bears repeating,” Dukat says, “that _I_ am the preeminent authority on this station. I’ve considered your position - and I overrule it. Do I make. Myself. Clear?”

This time, Damar moves to shield Naprem entirely from view.

Dukat and Darhe’el stare one another down for several tense seconds. Finally, Darhe’el jerks his hand loose, pulling it behind his back. Dukat lets him, flaring his ridges out in a dominance display. He’s won.

“I anticipate you’ll need accommodations while visiting the station,” he says.

“Not at all,” Darhe’el says, clearly muscling back a sneer. “I’ll return to my ship for the time being. I’m sure you’ll call upon me at your earliest convenience - I would hate to delay justice any longer than completely necessary.”

“Of course,” Dukat says, palms turned upright. “It is such an _honor_ to have you onboard, Gul Darhe’el.”

Darhe’el smiles in that bitter, hateful way of his, and does a small parody of a bow.

“Yes,” he says, “I imagine it is.”

With that, he turns and walks out the way he came. No one moves to stop him.

As the doors slide shut behind him, the silence lingers. Everyone seems to be looking at everyone else, waiting for someone to speak first but not knowing what to say. Naprem feels a strange numbing sensation come over her - a strange tingling that slides from the top of her head to the tips of her fingers.

“...I’m going to faint,” she realizes.

“In my office,” Dukat says sharply, and with that he takes her by the arm and marches her up the steps. Damar follows close behind.

Dukat sits her down in the chair before his desk. She can’t feel her head, or her hands, or her feet - her body is so cold. The nausea seems to have taken hold of all of her now; the wooziness centers in her chest instead of her stomach. Her breath is so slow and shallow that all her thoughts seem to come on several seconds after they ought to.

“Water,” Dukat says to Damar, and Damar moves across the room to the replicator.

“You did well,” Dukat’s saying to her. His hands are resting on her arms - when she looks at them, they seem so big. Her hands are so much smaller than his, she thinks, and so much warmer. Even through her clothes and the numb cold that’s consuming her whole body, he feels cool. His deep voice is oddly soothing. “You did very well, Professor. Look at me.” She struggles to. Her vision is hazy. Moving her eyes gives her vertigo. “Keep your eyes on me.”

Damar returns with the water, and Dukat takes it from him. He holds it out to Naprem and she stares at it for a second, unable to process what she ought to do. When she finally reaches for it, he secures her hand with his.

“Drink,” he advises her. She does, shakily. He keeps his hand on hers, takes the water back when he’s done.

“Tora,” he says. “Look at me.” She does. He’s kneeling, she realizes. Has she ever seen him so low to the ground? Never. He’s made himself smaller for her, she realizes - he’s looking up at her, a Cardassian sign of respect. “I promise you - as long as I live, I will never let any harm come to you by his hand. I swear it.”

Naprem watches him. It’s strange, she thinks. For all his flaws - and he has many - there’s something about the way he says it that makes her almost believe him.

Then, with both of them watching, she lets her head fall back, and faints.

* * *

When she comes to, she can feel her body again. She wishes dearly that she couldn’t.

She sits up, slowly. Her head is pounding. Her whole body aches; her heart feels _tired_ in her chest, exhausted from riding too long at a gallop. She feels hungover. She puts a hand to her head, exhaling slowly, wishing she could keep her eyes closed forever.

“Good,” Dukat says. “You’re awake.”

She sighs, slightly exasperated, and opens her eyes. He’s sitting at his desk reviewing a PADD, with several others scattered carelessly across its surface.

“Dr. Tebua advised us to leave you where you were,” he says, still reading. “How do you feel?”

She looks down at her lap, hand pressed to her temple. “Like a… warm summer’s day,” she says. Her voice comes out quiet and rough. She's too tired to do much about it.

Dukat looks up, brow creased. Then: “Ah. You’re being sarcastic.”

“Am I?” she asks.

He narrows his eyes.

She takes pity on him. “I am. Yes.”

He shakes his head, looking back at his PADD. “Do all Bajorans share your communication style, Professor? I occasionally find it very unnerving.”

“I don’t know, sir. I have yet to meet all of us.”

Dukat puts his PADD down with the air of a parent who’s been irked into paying attention to a particularly mischievous child.

“Are you trying to annoy me, Professor?”

“Yes.”

“May I ask why?”

“Because I’m feeling particularly miserable, and annoying you amuses me.”

He stares at her a moment, his expression strangely soft - though largely unreadable. He looks back at the PADD in his hand, then sighs. He turns in his chair, and sets it down before her.

“I’ve been reviewing your notes,” he says. “It appears I owe you an apology. I assume you found what you needed to render the...victims. Useful.”

His word choice is so deliberate she’d be daft not to notice it. “I did. It isn’t much.”

“And you were the one who advised Quark to come see me.”

“Yes.”

He nods a little, resting his chin on his knuckles. “His testimony was very useful. I struggle to imagine what might compel a Ferengi to such candor… As far as I know, you’re not a particularly wealthy woman.”

“A sense of civic duty?” she suggests, still airy and tired.

Dukat quirks a browridge. “Professor. The intel _was_ valuable - let's not insult him by implying he's ever felt so much as a smidgen of civic duty in his life.”

“You're right,” she says. “Of course.” She settles back into the chair, trying in vain to get comfortable. “Was it enough?”

Dukat tips his head, looking down at his terminal. “Nearly. He has the testimony we need - he alleges that Darhe’el’s men met at his bar several times to discuss plans to overthrow me. There’s security footage to verify that version of events.”

“But?”

“Well, for one thing, he's not a Cardassian citizen. I know, Professor,” he says at the look on her face. “I know. It isn't fair. But it's the law. A Cardassian citizen may only be charged with treason by another Cardassian citizen.”

“That's idiotic,” Naprem says, too exhausted not to. “The very nature of treason almost guarantees that it will involve non-citizens, moreso than any other crime.”

Dukat's voice is infuriatingly patient. “I don't make the law, Tora.”

“No,” Naprem sighs. “You merely enforce it, which… to be quite honest, is worse.” She presses a hand to her face, rubbing her scar slowly. “What's the other problem?”

“While we can prove that they had the means and designs to overthrow me - we have yet to prove a solid connection to Darhe’el.”

“A solid connection?” Naprem repeats. “They're his men.”

“Technically, they're _my_ men.” Dukat folds his hands. “As such, I can punish them as I so choose. But I'm not interested in doing that unless I can guarantee that Darhe’el won't have the resources - political or otherwise - to try all this a second time.”

Despite all the leaden aches in her body, Naprem still feels it when her heart sinks. “I don't suppose it would be possible to arrest him.”

“Not without just cause. He's not under my command.”

“Yes, he is.”

“Not in the same way,” Dukat says, clearly irritated by it. “He and I are of the same rank. As long as I am Prefect, he's obligated to follow my orders, but he is not - unfortunately - under my command. It may be too much to expect to find sufficient evidence to arrest him.” He looks over at her. “I'm sorry, Professor. I know that must be disappointing.”

Naprem looks at the floor and shakes her head. “I should've expected as much. In my experience, it's easier to get a Gul killed than to get him arrested.”

Dukat hums. “It’s to your credit, Professor, that I don't take that as a threat.”

She looks up - they watch one another for a while. Naprem remembers Darhe’el calling her prey and she wonders - not for the first time - if that’s how Dukat sees her, too; in the same way a cat sees a particularly charming mouse.

“So,” she says. “What next, then?”

Dukat frowns and turns his head, pressing his fingers together. “We have enough to try his soldiers for conspiracy to commit treason. But we’ll have to prove that Darhe’el was directly involved if we want any hope of preventing this from happening a second time.”

“How?”

“I wish I knew,” he says, frowning deeper. “We’d planned to conduct the bulk of the final interrogations tomorrow - at this rate, I’ll have no choice but to include him.”

“Sir,” Naprem says, “you know he’s counting on that. He’s here to sabotage the investigation.”

“If I prevent him, he may very well contact _my_ superiors - and then I’ll have to provide a sufficient reason he should be barred from the investigation. A reason, I’ll remind you, which I _do not have._ ”

Naprem purses her lips and looks away. Her exhaustion is beginning to fade as her brain finally kicks into gear.

“...then we’ll have to use his involvement, somehow,” she says, finally.

“Meaning?”

“Think about it,” Naprem says, looking back at him. “If he’s come all the way out here, we must be close. He came in _person_ to make sure he would get to participate in the interrogations. Either he doesn’t trust his men, or he thinks we’re too close to the truth to risk it.”

Dukat nods slowly. “So, if we involve him in the investigation…”

“He’ll probably point us right to it,” Naprem says. “Whatever he shows the most interest in hiding…”

“Will be exactly what we ought to be paying attention to,” Dukat concludes. “Very clever, Professor.”

“It’s not much of a plan,” Naprem says.

“It’s better than nothing.”

“I still don’t like giving him the opportunity to destroy or tamper with vital evidence.”

“Neither do I,” Dukat agrees. “But it’s our best option.”

Naprem looks away again, because it’s better than reiterating that their ‘best option’ still isn’t very good.

“Which brings us to our more immediate problem,” Dukat says, knitting his fingers.

“There’s a more immediate problem than Gul Darhe’el sabotaging our investigation?”

“Yes.”

“I’d love to hear what it is.”

Dukat taps his forefinger against his knuckle, watching her. “He’s taken an interest in you, Professor.”

Naprem feels a wash of cold revulsion across her ribs. She folds her hands in her lap.

“I don’t see why.”

“You do,” Dukat says. “And it’s my fault for bringing you to his attention. I see that now.”

Naprem swallows thickly, feeling suddenly consumed with bitterness. She’d tried to tell him that.

“Your safety,” Dukat continues, interrupting her bitter reverie, “is my greatest concern, at the moment. I suspect he may attempt to do you harm, if I return you to general population before our business here is concluded. Security Chief Lukin believes that he may have loyalists even among my own ranks.”

Naprem bites the inside of her cheek, fighting off the thread of fear tangling around her. “I’d heard that as well.”

Dukat nods, expression grim. “Then I see no choice - we can’t risk returning you to the Section 35 group quarters until we can be confident we’ve expunged whatever threat he may pose you.” He stands from his seat, pacing towards the viewport.

Naprem shakes her head a little, uncomprehending. “I have to sleep somewhere.”

“And you will,” Dukat says. “I’ve given this quite a bit of thought. It seems to me to be the only sensible choice. Until the threat is neutralized, you’ll stay in my quarters.”

Naprem sits there for all of a second or two before the meaning of his words hits her. She shoots upright.

“No!” she says. “No. Absolutely not! That’s entirely inappropriate.”

Dukat looks over at her, shocked at her outburst. “ _No?_ ”

“No! No, a _thousand_ times no! Not in a million years!”

She shocks a chuckle from him. “I’ll do my best not to take your vehemence _personally_ , Professor.”

“What would _possess you_ to even suggest such a thing?!”

“My quarters are the safest place on the station!” he argues.

“And while I’m in your quarters, where will _you_ be staying?”

He looks incredulous. “In my quarters.”

Naprem throws her hands up. “No! _No._ Thank you, sir, but I absolutely, completely refuse - the level of impropriety--”

“Professor! Are you implying you would rather _die_ than spend a single night in my quarters?”

Naprem pauses. She looks down. She looks up. She opens her mouth.

“Perhaps not... _die_ …”

“Oh, please, Professor, it really is too late to spare my feelings now.” He says it in a way that makes it impossible to tell if he’s joking. He looks, in many ways, genuinely offended, but too incredulous to put it into words.

“I have to field more than enough implications of impropriety already!” Naprem says. “I don’t need those rumors exacerbated in any way!”

“Rumors?” Dukat says, as though he hasn’t heard them.

“And you,” Naprem says, jabbing her finger at him, face flushing. “Don’t _you_ think for a second--”

“I _don’t_ ,” he says.

“I have _no_ interest,” she says, with growing hysteria. “None. Not now, not _ever_ , do you hear me?”

“Professor!” Dukat interrupts, loudly. “Professor,” he says again, softer this time. “I recognize your discomfort. But I assure you: I am a _married man._ ”

Naprem pauses again, tirade faltering in her throat. She puts her hands on her hips, trying to find something with her indignance that isn’t just… awkwardly letting go of it. She searches for a good retort.

“...you’re married?” is what comes out.

“Yes,” Dukat says, patiently.

“...to your work?”

“Professor!” Dukat chortles. “To a _woman_. For over fifty years, in fact.”

Naprem folds her arms.

“... _really?_ ”

“Yes! Professor,” Dukat laughs. “How lowly _do_ you think of me?”

“You don’t want an answer to that,” she says.

He puts a hand to his chest. “You wound me. Truly. Regardless of anything you may have heard - I have absolutely no intention of making you uncomfortable, if it can be helped.”

Naprem shifts her weight from one hip to the other.

“What’s your wife’s name?”

At this, Dukat hums with satisfaction, closing his eyes as though he’s savoring the memory. “Athra,” he says, with such raw affection it’s a little embarrassing. “She’s a doctor on Cardassia Prime. One of the best.” He shakes his head, smiling. “She’s all that a man could hope for - brilliant. Regal. Distinguished in her field. And a wonderful mother.”

“You have children?”

Dukat grins a little wider, smug as can be.

“I have _six_ children.”

“ _Six!_ ” Naprem exclaims, and she’s aware they’re getting pretty far off topic, but she can’t help it. Her natural curiosity is getting the better of her.

Dukat leans against his desk, arms folded, puffed up and proud. “The Dukat family line appreciates a great deal more virility than your _average_ Cardassian,” he says. “Though, of course, Athra’s family is also quite reputable…”

“And you don’t think she’ll object to the idea of a strange woman spending the night in your quarters?”

“Professor,” Dukat says, regaining his serious tone. “We won’t even be in the same room. I wish you wouldn’t assume the worst of me. This is a measure taken to assure your _security_. Nothing else.”

Naprem sighs, trying to settle the unease roiling in her stomach.

“Why can’t I just spend the night in one of the empty apartments on the habitat ring?”

“It would be impossible to secure without drawing his notice,” Dukat says, and Naprem regrets that he has a point.

“You don’t think it’ll draw his notice that I’m spending the night in your quarters?”

“Oh, I imagine it will,” he says. “But unless he’s prepared to send his minions to roust _me_ from _my_ bed, he won’t be able to do you any harm. You’ll be safe. Which - again - is my primary concern.”

Naprem stands there, arms folded, feeling increasingly embarrassed. She doesn’t have any compelling arguments to make. He’s right - of course he’s right. But the thought of spending the night in his quarters - or, worse, having anyone else _find out_ she spent the night in his quarters - mortifies her.

“I just don’t want anyone to _know_ ,” she says.

Dukat watches her for a moment. Then, he glances out at Ops, and sighs.

“Well,” he says, slowly. “It’s a bit ostentatious.”

He stands up from his desk and slowly walks towards her - he swaggers less than he usually does, walking instead like he’s trying not to frighten her off.

“But…” he says, coming very close to her. “I suppose there is a way. If it’s of such great concern to you.”

He regards what little space there is left between them.

“If you don’t mind a bit of… momentary discomfort.”

Naprem stares up at him, wondering what, exactly, she ought to feel, standing so close.

“I suppose not,” she says, cautiously.

Dukat lifts his wrist and taps the communicator on his gauntlet.

“This is Dukat,” he says. “Two to my quarters.”

The transporter beam comes over her like a fine wine - her whole body begins to buzz, tingling from head to toe, and her consciousness flutters. One moment, she’s in his office. For just a second, she’s both everywhere and nowhere. Then, she’s standing in his quarters. The whole world seems to rematerialize around them all at once.

She blinks around, open-mouthed, stupefied.

Dukat _radiates_ smugness.

“How’s that?” he asks.

“I..." She stutters, still getting her bearings. "Um." She struggles to find the word. "Sufficient,” she says, feeling like a malfunctioning android.

She doesn’t even have to look directly at him - she can _feel_ his self-satisfied grin. It might as well be another person standing in the room with them.

He takes a step back, gesturing to the open door to a room she didn’t notice the last time she was here.

“My guest room,” he says. “Please. Make yourself comfortable.”

Naprem doesn’t know what to do or say. Her words still seem to come out unbidden.

“Assuming all of my brain came with me,” she says, “I’ll do my level best.”

Dukat throws his head back, and laughs.


	4. Be The Serpent Under’t

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After an awkward evening, Dukat and Naprem head into the interrogation of one of the Gallitep soldiers only to find themselves doing rounds with the Devil... again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Write fan fiction," they said. "It'll be fun," they said.
> 
> This chapter has content warnings for violence, implied/mentioned sexual assault, implied/mentioned genocide, victim blaming, and... WOW a lot of really racist, vile shit. Darhe'el is - let's be honest - a content warning all on his own. 
> 
> A huge shout out to Calamity_Lena and D'rorah: I love you and I swear, at some point, I'm going to write cute things. ...I swear.
> 
> A quick note: "Garresh" is a Cardassian military term meaning (basically) "ensign."
> 
> [EDIT 2/14/18] I've included another piece of artwork in this chapter - this one is be the wonderful Weyoun (aka [itsweyounsburgernow](https://itsweyounsburgernow.tumblr.com) on Tumblr)! Their Naprem piece totally blew me away and reduced me to nothing but tears an unintelligible babbling. She's so cute!! Ack!!! Lord help me, I am so blessed - I just had to share this incredible gift with all of you. <3 LLAP

_Naprem by[itsweyounsburgernow](https://itsweyounsburgernow.tumblr.com)_

* * *

 

They pass the night awkwardly, to say the least. Naprem maintains her guardedness, and to his credit, Dukat doesn’t challenge it any further. He offers her food and they eat in relative silence: her, across the room on the divan, watching his every move; him, at his table, reading, not seeming to even notice her. When she crosses the room to return her dish to the replicator, she feels obligated to say something mundane to prevent the silence from straining.

“Do you always leave your armor on after you return home for the evening?”

“No,” he says, sipping his kanar. And he leaves it at that.

His own wariness inexplicably makes her marginally more comfortable in her own. When she passes him again, she allows him a wide berth. They spend the rest of the night reading on opposite sides of the room, entertaining sparse, indirect conversation.

“I don’t suppose Records will expect me back tomorrow,” she says, carefully.

“I took the liberty of informing them that I’d be in need of your services until the end of the week,” Dukat says. “I hope you don’t find that objectionable.”

“No, sir,” Naprem says. She watches him flick his fingers across his PADD, sitting back in his chair, and then, she returns to her own reading. She’s looking over the personnel files of the soldiers from Gallitep, hoping to find something they missed. Mostly, she just feels tired.

It’s been so long since she’s determined her own bedtime that she struggles to figure out how to initiate it. Her eyes are tripping over the sentences in front of them. She bites her lip, props her head against her hand, trying to stay awake. But her eyelids feel so heavy. Exhaustion weighs down the front of her brain and soon her chin is dipping… dipping...

“Professor,” Dukat says, pointedly, rousing her from a doze. “You’re free to retire whenever you wish.”

Naprem blinks and jerks her head up. Across the room, Dukat is watching her, but he doesn’t move. She carefully picks herself up off the divan. She has to hobble a little; the leg she tucked underneath her has fallen asleep, and it pricks with pins and needles as she gets up again. She moves to the doorway of the guest room, keeping her eyes on Dukat, giving him a wide berth. He watches her, still unmoving.

“Goodnight, Professor,” he says.

“Goodnight, sir,” she says back.

The door closes behind her when she steps through it. The room is spartan - Dukat’s only had these quarters for a few months, but it’s clear that neither he nor his predecessor were much for entertaining. She sets her PADD down on the nightstand. The bed is firm, but not uncomfortable, and it’s heated to compensate for the lack of bedclothes. She sits down on it, wondering why, in a room so small, she feels so preoccupied with the _door_ of all things. Then, she stands up, and walks back out into the common room.

She finds Dukat standing up from the table, stretching. He freezes on sight of her, and she sees him pull back in - reconstructing his professional air for her benefit.

“Professor,” he says, expectantly.

“Is it possible to lock this door from the inside?” she asks.

“...yes,” he says, after a moment. “If you’d like.”

“I would.”

He nods, slowly, then tips his head. “I’ll authorize it.”

“Thank you, sir,” she says.

She steps back inside. When she orders it to, she hears the locking mechanism click. When she lays down, she listens for someone on the other side. She lies there for quite some time, listening, waiting. She waits for someone - for Dukat - to test the lock. She waits for the sound. She’s ready for the sound.

It never comes. She drifts off waiting for it. When she wakes up - once before dawn, and once after - the lock is still in place, untampered with. She sleeps deep, if unevenly. She’s too tired to dream.

* * *

The morning somehow feels even more awkward than the evening before. Naprem spends a few minutes trying to smooth out her clothes and massage away the pinch their bunching left in her joints. There’s a small bathroom adjoining her room, and she’s shocked by the sight of her own face in the mirror as she’s washing her hands. Looking at herself unnerves her - she looks so _old_ _,_ so worn, so tired. It’s like looking into the face of a stranger who blinks when she does, who has her mother’s eyes and lips. She looks away and refuses to make eye contact with it again. It lingers in her periphery like a poltergeist.

When she emerges, she finds Dukat making himself a cup of tea at the replicator. He looks nearly as tired as she feels. He doesn’t hear her come in, and for a moment she’s treated once more to what he looks like with his guard down: his shoulders relaxed, his headfeathers newly slicked back. He yawns widely, covering it with his wrist.

He spots her as he’s turning around from the replicator and pauses. She sees him trying to puzzle out how long she’s been watching, and interrupts him so he won’t think the worst.

“Good morning, Gul Dukat.”

“Good morning, Professor.” He moves to the table, watching her. “Did you sleep well?”

“As well as I could,” she says.

“Mm.” He sips from his mug while it’s still steaming. “I suppose it must be difficult to sleep somewhere unfamiliar.”

Naprem narrows her eyes a little, confused. “Not at all,” she says. “I’ve become very accustomed to it, over the years. It’s simply been in a while since I slept in a bed.”

Dukat pauses mid-sip, staring at her.

She gestures to the replicator. “May I?”

He takes the cup from his mouth and sets it on the table. “Of course.”

They eat their morning meal in almost exactly the same way they ate their evening meal - on opposite sides of the room, trying to avoid getting caught staring at one another. It isn’t as though they have much to talk about; but talking, at least, would interrupt her thoughts. It would intercede the rising tide of her dread. She stares into her morning tea - a rare treat that she doesn’t know how to savor.

Every time she thinks of Darhe’el, her appetite shrinks, until she’s staring down at a half eaten plate feeling ashamed of herself.

When Damar finally calls from Operations, it’s almost a relief. Naprem puts her plate back on the replicator pad, wincing as it disappears, and grabs her PADD off the table in the guest room while he and Dukat are talking. After that, they leave through the front door. As they walk down the hall together, Naprem finally feels compelled to say something to break the silence, weighed down as she is by her own festering dread.

“Is it strange that I’m almost looking forward to getting it over with?”

“Not at all,” Dukat says. “I’d been thinking the same thing myself. The less time we give him to scheme, the better.” He folds his arms behind his back. “When was the last time you witnessed an interrogation, Professor?”

“I’m sure it was in my Risk Assessment documentation,” Naprem says, trying not to think about it.

Dukat frowns. “I don’t mean the last time you participated in one.”

“I think ‘participated’ is a generous way to put it.”

“I only mean that most Cardassian interrogators receive a great deal of specialized training to maximize their effectiveness at information extraction,” he says, as though he didn’t hear her.

She doesn’t want to think about any of this - the only thing worse than having to contend with Darhe’el again is having to do it during an _interrogation_ of all things.

“What’s your point?” she asks, silently wishing she hadn’t said anything at all.

“I only wonder if it may be best for you to focus your energy on transcribing what you can, while I focus on keeping Gul Darhe’el from interfering.”

“I thought you were going to oversee the final interrogations.”

“Security Chief Lukin is a gifted interrogator,” Dukat says. “I’m certain he can see them through.”

Security Chief Lukin is one of the only Cardassians on the station Naprem actively abhors, rather than passively hates. The idea of being alone in an interrogation with him - be it on the receiving end of his sadism or simply as a witness to it - makes little tingles of revulsion trail up the back of her neck.

“If Lukin was going to find anything, he would have by now,” Naprem says, hurrying to keep up with him. “You were planning to oversee the final interrogations yourself, that wasn't on a whim - they'll expect to see you.” Her feelings of revulsion intensify as something occurs to her. “...which Darhe’el must know. That's how interrogations generally progress. If the lead interrogator isn't getting what you need, you send in the leader of the installation. That's protocol.”

Dukat gives her a sidelong look. “Speaking from experience, Professor?”

It's her turn to ignore him this time. “He must be counting on that. Either you head into the interrogation and he goes with you - or you don't, and Lukin finalizes the interrogation without getting the intelligence we need.”

“That assumes _I_ can get the intelligence we need.”

“Can’t you?”

Dukat shrugs more with his mouth than his shoulders. “I can certainly escalate things. Faced with me, they’ll realize that any continued obstinance on their part only delays the inevitable.”

“These are men who regard you as their enemy,” Naprem agrees, though she doesn’t particularly like his phrasing. “Their reaction to you could tell us a great deal. But I don’t like the idea of sending you into a room with men whose crime is plotting to kill you.”

“Professor,” Dukat says with a slow, lopsided grin. “Are you concerned for my safety?”

Naprem tries to ignore the flush that rises to her cheeks. “Aren’t _you?_ ”

They’re interrupted before he can reply - Damar is waiting for them as they approach the lift. Dukat nods to him as they approach. “Damar.”

“Gul Dukat,” he says, with a quick bob of his head. “The Security Chief is waiting for you.”

“And Gul Darhe’el?” Dukat asks.

“Waiting for you in your office, sir.” Damar casts a look at Naprem, like he’s waiting for her to be cast off. She makes a point of staying directly beside Dukat, looking straight back at him.

“Have him meet us in the security office,” Dukat says, stepping into the lift. “No need to prolong this any more than necessary.”

“Yes, sir,” Damar says, visibly disappointed as Naprem follows them in. Naprem gives him a look, heart sitting too high in her chest.

 _If I could be anywhere else_ _,_ she doesn’t say, _I would be._

* * *

How Darhe’el beats them to the Security Office is a mystery. But there he is, waiting on the other side of the doors, a living avatar of Naprem’s dread. He looks no different now than he did yesterday - if he’s in any way worried about what’s about to take place, he doesn’t show it. It's clear the defeat Dukat dealt him yesterday hasn’t stuck. Instantly Naprem feels at a disadvantage; he’s already recovered, but she hasn’t. Even looking at him makes her feel ill.

“Gul Dukat,” he says as they enter. “Perhaps now we can finally get this under way.”

Lukin looks particularly rankled - a significant feat, given his naturally unpleasant disposition. His arms are folded tightly across his chest. He gives Dukat a look, like he’d put Darhe’el in a cell right now if Dukat only said the word. Dukat shakes his head a little, waving him off.

“I admire your sense of justice, Gul Darhe’el,” he says, pacing into the room slowly. “Most people would express some amount of apprehension at the idea of trying their own men.”

“I have nothing to hide,” Darhe’el smiles. Naprem didn’t think she could be more unsettled by him, but clearly she was wrong. His smile makes her ears ring. “In fact, I feel sure this entire investigation is a bit… misguided.”

“What an... _interesting_ perspective,” Dukat says, with a disbelieving grin. “Completely incompatible with the facts. But… interesting, nonetheless.”

“The facts,” Darhe’el scoffs. “What facts _do_ you have, exactly?”

 _He can’t be serious_ _,_ Naprem thinks.

“If you’ve failed to review the evidence documentation…”

“I’ve reviewed it,” Darhe’el says, chin jutted out. “My question remains the same: what _facts_. Do you have?”

The words leap out of Naprem’s mouth before she can restrain herself. “Video surveillance.”

Dukat and Damar both glance at her, expressions uneasy. But Darhe’el looks utterly delighted - he looks her in the eye, and she realizes she’s played directly into his hands. She feels her face go hot and cold at the same time, her heart twisting her chest like a child plying at her. _Let’s go_ _,_ it whimpers,  _hurry, let’s get out of here._

“Ah,” Darhe’el croons, moving towards her. There’s something almost hypnotic about the way he moves - slightly swaying, like a cobra. There’s nowhere to run - she wants to, she desperately wants to. “Yes. The video surveillance, showing a group of soldiers meeting in a bar. How very suspicious.”

Naprem flounders, wishing - _wishing_ \- she could unsay it. But she can’t let him have the last word, either. Her heart chatters like teeth against her ribs.

“We have eyewitness testimony,” she says. Every word feels jagged.

“Of course,” Darhe’el purrs. “Do you mean the eyewitness testimony of the _Ferengi bartender_ , or that of the flock of _laze-abouts?_ ”

Naprem flushes with fury, heart choking with protectiveness. He shouldn’t talk about the women from Section 35. It’s his fault they’ve suffered so much to begin with - it’s his fault they aren’t here to defend themselves. _There are easier ways to get out of work_ _,_ she almost says. _There are a thousand easier ways, a thousand better ways than suffering cruelty and indignity at your command._

But before she can say anything, she feels Dukat’s hand on her arm, carefully guiding her behind him. Her chest squeezes as she looks up at him.

“I found both equally compelling,” he says. “Don’t you agree?”

Darhe’el narrows his eyes, pausing in his approach.

“We have their weapons, their requisition chits, and their private terminal logs,” Lukin growls, clearly sick of being ignored.

Darhe’el turns to regard him.

“How perfunctory,” he says. “Well… all you need now is the testimony of a Cardassian citizen that they intended to commit treason against the Union. Do you have that?”

Lukin’s ridges flush with ire. “If I did, we’d be done already.”

“What a shame,” Darhe’el says, tone mocking. “And after such thorough preparation. Well,” he says, turning to Dukat, “perhaps your Prefect will have better luck. Otherwise, I’m afraid it may all go to waste.”

Both Damar and Lukin bristle, headfeathers stiffening on the back of their necks, ridges flushing. Naprem feels herself do the same - cheeks flushing, fists clenched until her knuckles turn white. Her whole body burns with hatred and dismay.

But Dukat remains unfazed. “I doubt it will come to that,” he says.

Despite her brewing disquiet, Naprem feels almost comforted by his confidence.

“Damar,” Dukat says, turning to look at him. “I’d like you to oversee Operations for the next few hours.”

Damar narrows his eyes, but clearly isn’t prepared to challenge Dukat in front of Darhe’el. “I obey, sir,” he says, haltingly. But the question is in the look he gives him: _you don’t want me in the interrogation?_

Dukat doesn’t answer, verbally or otherwise. He turns, instead, to Darhe’el, and extends his hand towards the door to the holding cells.

“Shall we?”

Darhe’el sneers. “Oh, after you, Prefect. I insist.”

For a split second, Naprem's not sure where to go - Dukat moves forward, still cool and unperturbed, and she has no idea what he expects her to do. She feels almost weighed down, still rendered static by Darhe’el’s eyes on her. But she sees Dukat motion in the smallest way with one hand; a silent command to follow. She shares a dubious look with Damar, but she does as he did before and doesn't argue. She hurries after him, staying close, PADD clutched to her chest, and follows him into the belly of the beast.

* * *

The doors slide shut behind them and they walk down the hall. Dukat keeps himself firmly between the two of them, but it hardly matters. Darhe’el is watching Naprem from across the way.

“I'm surprised you'd choose her to accompany you,” he says. “I've heard the little thing has a very delicate constitution.”

“I assure you,” Dukat says. “Professor Tora’s constitution is much more robust than you assume.”

“Ah,” Darhe’el says, “yes, I suppose you'd be the authority on that.”

Naprem’s heart lurches so hard that she feels it in her throat like a pending desire to vomit. Dukat doesn't pause, mid-stride - but Naprem knows it's a near thing. He looks over, face placid.

“I don't take your meaning,” he says.

“Don't you?” Darhe’el asks, feigning sincerity. “I suppose subtlety is lost on men your age. Plainly speaking, I was alarmed not to receive an invitation to dine with you yesterday. If I didn't know better, I'd assume you meant to insult me.”

“Insult you?” Dukat replies, putting a hand to his chest. “Why, nothing of the kind. It was my assumption that you would take your meal alone, on your ship - I _did_ offer to accommodate you, you remember.”

 _Subtlety is lost on men his age_ _,_ Naprem thinks, but doesn't say. She clamps her tongue between her teeth, determined to tame it. She's too wary now to risk trying to be clever.

“You’d made it clear that you’d found the burdens of the job to be daunting. I had no intention of asking you to extend yourself further. Although, from what I hear, you were busy…” He gives Naprem a significant look. “...entertaining.”

Naprem flushes darkly and avoids his eyes, disgust blooming in her chest. _Assumptions_ , what had she told him about assumptions? Just once, she’d like a single person to assume Dukat hired her for her brain - to look at her and find the alternative unconscionable. She is _Bajoran_ , isn’t she? He is _married_ , isn’t he? And there’s something worse about Darhe’el thinking it - speaking it, putting it out into the already putrid air between them. It’s like being cursed by a Pagh Wraith. The thought is ugly, the words are ugly, and he speaks it into existence so casually that it could curdle every ounce of goodwill Naprem has left in her body.

Dukat speaks in her stead. “What a pity. I can assure you - whatever sources you have, they’re far more eager than they are accurate.”

Darhe’el clucks his tongue, but whatever he would’ve said in reply is interrupted by the door to the interrogation room. Dukat reaches for the door panel, which recognizes his biosignature and chimes. Naprem holds her breath.

“After you,” Dukat says to Darhe’el. “I insist.”

Darhe’el studies him for a moment, seeming to weigh the merits of refusing. Eventually, he steps inside. Dukat turns to Naprem and she ducks her head - they cross the threshold together, and the doors slide shut behind them.

Naprem has never been on this end of the interrogation room for long enough to take it in. The soldier is held on the opposite side of the room, stripped naked, his long arms held in cuffs perpendicular to his head, his ankles and his tail restrained. A set of lights stare at him from a rack near the door, blindingly bright, showing every inch of his body in an uncomfortable level of detail. The room buzzes with a lingering smell of metal and blood, as though this room knows its own purpose better than any living thing possibly could.

It’s all so familiar, and yet strangely unfamiliar - unnerving, like being on the wrong side of a mirror. For a split second, she looks up and sees someone who looks like her: the face of a stranger who blinks when she does, who has her mother’s eyes and lips. She shakes it off, turns her face down. If she doesn’t look at him directly, it isn’t real. Goosebumps rise on the back of her neck. There’s a tickle of sensation directly below her ears.

Dukat and Darhe’el move forward, seeming to know where they belong in the room - they each stand at the edge of the pool of light, regarding the soldier from just inside his field of vision. Naprem stays near the door, hidden behind the lights. She doesn’t want to be any closer than she’s required to be. Honestly, she wishes they’d left her out in the hall. She keeps her head down, pursing her lips as she opens the transcription application on her PADD.

All she has to do is listen, she tells herself. That’s all. Surely, she can survive that.

“Garresh Sedos,” Dukat says, each syllable catching on his teeth.

The soldier looks up, glaring into the lights, trying to see. His pupils are needle-thin slits, more yellow than brown.

Dukat steps forward slowly, raising his chin, regarding him as a king regards a vole.

“Our last meeting didn’t leave us time to be properly introduced,” he says. “I am Gul Dukat, overseer of this station, and Prefect of the planet of Bajor. I regret that we have to meet under such unfortunate circumstances.”

Sedos shifts, and the light catches on a newly-healed wound on his chest: fresh clawmarks, only a few days old, and deep from the look of them. The bruising on his face has mostly healed, but it’s clear that not long ago he was beaten half to death. Naprem bites back her satisfaction, the horrible thought of: _Good._

“Have you nothing to say?” Dukat asks, feigning curiosity.

“No, sir,” Sedos says. His voice is rasping and bored.

Dukat peers at him, examining his face. “You realize, of course, that your silence may be construed as a sign of guilt.”

“I have nothing to feel guilty for, sir.”

“Nothing?” Dukat repeats. “I envy you your clean conscience. It’s unexpected from a man in your position.” He draws himself upright slowly, so that Sedos has to look up at him. “You do realize you’ve been accused of treason?”

“Come now,” Darhe’el says. “That’s not necessary.”

At the mere sound of his voice, Sedos’ expression changes. All at once, he goes from a cold stone effigy to a wanton child, expressionless face flooding with awe. Darhe’el steps forward, and to Sedos, it’s as if there’s no one else in the room.

“Gul Darhe’el,” he chokes out, stumbling over his name in his excitement. He bows his head, just as Naprem saw the civilians do before.

Darhe’el emanates smug satisfaction, though he remains outwardly expressionless. “This boy’s committed no crime,” he says, calmly.

Sedos’ head darts up, an eager, grateful look on his face. Naprem feels her stomach cramp with the intensity of her disgust; he looks at Darhe’el like the man is his own father, back from the dead. As though all this was more than worth it to be in his presence.

Even Dukat seems unnerved by this - Naprem sees him shift his shoulders just slightly, folding his hands behind his back. “You defied my explicit orders.”

Sedos’ face darkens, as though he’s loathe to be reminded Dukat’s still in the room. He turns his face down, and Dukat’s shadow falls across his face. “I was following the mission, sir.”

Darhe’el all but _purrs_ with satisfaction. “And what is the mission, boy?”

Sedos pulls his head up - Naprem’s never seen such raw devotion in the face of a sentient creature. It makes her whole body ring with alarm. “To kill Bajoran scum, sir. To destroy the will of the enemy and see them driven before us.”

Naprem tries to hide the way her breath hitches, the way she has to swallow against it. In the back of her mind she hears Kranti Koafa’s voice; she hears her Great Aunt Onea’s.

 _Heartless, godless, soulless **monsters** … Animals, demons, **wraiths** … _ Unworthy of prayer, unworthy of pity, unworthy of sympathy, unworthy even of _names_. The hatred in her is alive, and tongue of fire licking her bones, wending its way through her blood.

“The ‘enemy’?” Dukat repeats, and his voice parts the flames around her heart. “Garresh,” he says. “The military occupation of this planet is to expedite its incorporation into the Union. We are not engaged in a traditional conflict here. There is no enemy force to be destroyed.”

Sedos glowers at Dukat. “All due respect, sir,” he says, showing his teeth and flexing his ridges in a way that says he doesn't think Dukat is due much respect at all, “you’re wrong.”

 _Focus_ _,_ Naprem tells herself, clutching her PADD. _Feel nothing. Be diamond, be stone._ She transcribes his words clinically, determined not to look up.

Dukat steps closer still. Now, his shadow eclipses Sedos’ whole body, casting him entirely in darkness.

“Garresh,” he says, and the cold in his voice steams over the fire of her hate. “Who is it you think determines policy on this planet?”

“On this station, maybe,” Sedos snaps. “Maybe up here, you can afford to be soft. Planet-side, we’re more in touch with reality.”

“And do you imagine that as Prefect of this planet, my authority does not extend _planet-side_ _?_ ”

“Does it?” Darhe’el asks, infuriatingly calm.

Dukat turns to him, fury as plain as the ridges on his face.

“If the answer to that question eludes you, Gul Darhe’el - we may be holding the wrong men on charges of treason.”

Darhe’el paces forward, slowly, holding his gaze. “‘A commander’s authority over his men should be self-evident. Any less than that is a disservice.’”

“‘A man’s worth is defined by the quality of his commitment to his patriotic duty, and to his station,’” Dukat replies with raw indignation, tail ticking to the left. “It’s clear to me that your understanding of Preloc is as selective as your understanding of your position.”

“So you’ll charge me with _treason?_ ” Darhe’el says, mockingly, as though it's a joke he's shocked Dukat has the gall to make. “If you haven’t made your authority clear on your own station, then you can hardly blame your men.” He draws himself up now, as Dukat has done - though, even at his full height, he’s much shorter than him. “It’s a personal failing that brings us here, Dukat. Let’s not pretend otherwise.”

“Garresh,” Dukat says, still facing Darhe’el. “You’ve passed all the mental acuity standards set for a man of your post - you are verifiably sane, and intellectually competent. Tell me: when I give you an order, does it or does it not supersede the order of any other man under whom you’ve previously served?”

Sedos stares at Dukat, brow a low, stubborn line. His nostrils flare. He says nothing.

“Garresh Sedos,” Dukat says, finally turning to look at him. His voice is a command. “You will _answer me_.”

Darhe’el watches him, and Naprem hates his superior expression. “The boy knows who’s really in charge,” he says, lowly. “He knows what he’s here to do: _kill. Bajoran. Scum._ It’s why we’re all here.”

Naprem feels her heart thudding in her chest, a fist against a locked door. Unwillingly, her eyes move to Dukat’s back. _Say something_ , she wills him. _Do something._ But the seconds tick by - Sedos refuses to answer, and Naprem sees Dukat’s neck flex with frustration. Darhe’el swells with his imminent victory.

Naprem looks down at her PADD, and her dissent escapes her unwillingly, in a mumble.

“If that’s why you’re here, you're not succeeding.”

Darhe’el stills, flicking his head back towards her. She jumps a little, biting her lip. Why, why does she always have to say something? Why can’t she ever just…

“It seems your pet has something to contribute,” Darhe’el says, the tip of his tail wagging just so. “Speak up, girl. If you have something to say--”

It’s his imperiousness that gets her a second time. “I said,” she bites out, loud enough for them both to hear her, “that if you’re here to kill us, you aren’t succeeding.”

Dukat turns to look at her, and Darhe’el does too - he hasn’t come down to his resting height, and in the light, his armor gleams like a carapace. “Oh,” he purrs, “I think you’re mistaken, _vole._ I think we’re doing tremendous work eradicating your species from the face of this miserable planet.”

“Then why are we still here?” Naprem asks, because if she’s going to make a fool of herself, she ought to at least be confident this time. She ignores the way that his gaze is enough to make her feel like a harp string, newly plucked. She ignores the burn of humiliation and the cold sinking fear nipping at her tongue.

But it isn’t Darhe’el who answers her. It’s Sedos.

“Watch your _mouth_ , scum!” he barks, spit flying from his mouth like a rabid dog.

Naprem had almost forgotten about him for a moment - Darhe’el had encompassed him, shrouded him in the enigmatic protections of his own hateful force of will. Next to him, the garresh all but turns invisible. But there he is: anchored to the wall, his whole body flushed, ridges dark, teeth gleaming in the light. His claws flex just beyond his cuffs. He’d tear her apart with his bare hands if he could, she has no doubt. He stares directly into the light, rendering himself blind in his mad attempts to see her.

“You have no right to speak to Gul Darhe’el,” he hisses. “Say another word and I’ll tear your throat out.”

Naprem stares at him, seeing him almost for the first time; hatred transforms him. He looks truly alive for the first time since they walked in, and she sees him grinding his toes against the floor. Dukat sees it too - he peers at Sedos with a wary curiosity.

“Professor Tora is my personal aide,” he says, slowly. “I interpret any threats of violence against her as threats upon my own person. Stand down, Garresh.”

“Interpret them as you wish,” Darhe’el says. “The boy’s right. She has no right to speak to me without your permission.”

“She has my permission,” Dukat says, still watching Sedos.

“I didn’t hear you give it,” Darhe’el says.

“She _has it_ ,” Dukat says again.

Naprem ignores them both. “You’ll tear my throat out?” she repeats.

“Oh, I’ll do more than that,” Sedos says, with relish.

“Gul Dukat just gave you an explicit order not to threaten me,” Naprem says. “Are you saying you’d violate that order?”

Sedos scoffs, and Naprem sees something like fear alight in Darhe’el’s face.

“Gul Dukat can’t order me,” Sedos says.

“Can’t I?” Dukat asks, but he’s realized what she’s doing too, and the calm is back. His voice is measured, his posture relaxed.

Sedos sneers over at him. “I’m here to kill Bajoran scum. That is my _purpose_. You have fun playing Prefect, however long that lasts. Me?” He looks at Naprem, and his ridges flush dark with spots. “I’ll be serving the Union - crushing these _bugs_ into _dust._ "

Darhe’el moves forward and strikes Sedos with such force it whips his head into the concrete. The sound startles Naprem from her stalwartness - fear leaps in her chest.

“Shut your mouth,” he snarls, and Naprem sees he’s cut new marks into the garresh’s cheek.

“Yes sir,” Sedos mumbles, the passion of a few seconds before vanished from his countenance.

Darhe’el sits back, but there’s an uncomfortable rigidity to his posture.

“ _Well_ ,” Dukat says, and it’s his turn to purr. “That is _illuminating._ ”

“You’ve proven nothing,” Darhe’el says, dismissively.

“On the contrary,” Dukat says. “Garresh Sedos seems to think your orders to him trump mine. Tell me, Gul Darhe’el - what orders did you give the contingent you sent here?”

Darhe’el pushes his lower lip up in a dubious shrug. “None you could possibly object to.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Dukat says.

Darhe’el looks over at Sedos, whose head remains bowed, posture bent and submissive. “What were your orders, boy?”

Sedos answers immediately: “To continue to perform our duties in an exemplary and disciplined manner, sir. To continue to purge and disrupt the Bajoran menace, sir. To carry forth the camaraderie and patriotism forged in Gallitep, sir.”

“And to kill Bajoran scum,” Naprem says, from the back of the room.

Sedos’ eyes dart to her, flooding once more with a poison that ought to infect her - but how can it, she wonders, when it’s so busy doing him in?

“What’s that?” Darhe’el asks, showing his teeth.

“His orders were also to kill Bajoran scum,” Naprem repeats. “You just said so. It's what you're all here to do.”

Darhe’el’s thin lips draw even thinner. “I won’t tolerate your insolence much longer, girl.”

Naprem swallows her fear. “It’s important that I clarify, for the integrity of the transcription.” She looks back at Sedos, emboldened. “That is what he said, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Dukat says.

“And is that ‘mission’ not directly incompatible with the Prefect’s stated orders, as pertains to the incorporation of the planet of Bajor into the Cardassian Union?”

“It most _certainly_ is,” Dukat agrees.

Darhe’el coughs out a disbelieving noise. “You’d punish a soldier for fighting?”

“Soldiers follow orders,” Dukat says with a dismissive snort. “This man,” he says, looking Darhe’el directly in the eye, “is a rabid hound.”

Darhe’el’s temper flares, eyes narrowing. “You are child,” he says, through his teeth. “And a coward.” He looks him up and down, hitching his upper lip in a show of contempt. “I give you soldiers who would kill and die for the good of Cardassia, and you lock them up for a bit of innocent rabble rousing.”

“Five women were _assaulted_ ,” Naprem snaps, dizzy with revulsion and a pain she doesn’t know how not to feel. It could have been her. With the way Sedos is looking at her, it soon very well might be.

“Five _Bajorans_ were put in their place,” says Darhe’el. “That’s not a crime and it never will be. We ‘put them to use’ - you don’t mind _that_ _,_ do you Prefect? The utilization of _resources_ _?_ ”

Dukat flares out his neck and spreads his shoulders. “I gave an explicit order,” he hisses.

“Yes,” Darhe’el says. “So, what now? As I see it, Dukat, you have a choice - you can choose your men, your dignity. You can choose to conduct yourself in a way one might come to call respectable. You can honor the authority of your station. Or - you can try to satisfy the mercurial whims of motes of dust. It’s us, or your pet, Dukat. Your honor, or your cowardice.”

Dukat’s headfeathers fan out and he puffs out his chest. His outrage is the only thing strong enough to hold Naprem’s at bay. He stalks over to Darhe’el, rising up on his digitigrade legs as he does, tail held straight out behind him.

“Allow me to make something clear to you, Darhe’el,” he says, showing off rows of sharp teeth. He clasps his chest, claws extended, catching his glimmering Prefect’s badge in the frame of his long fingers. “As long as _I_ wear this badge, and you do not - _you_ don’t give me ultimatums.”

“You won’t be wearing it much longer,” Sedos hisses.

“Bite your _tongue_ _,_ ” Darhe’el snaps.

Sedos’ body jerks with dismay, and he ducks his head. Then, by the glaring light of the interrogation lamps, Naprem sees an inky streak of blood go down his chin - then, a cascade, a flood. Horror strikes her like a backhand and she gasps, clutching her PADD to her chest. Dukat glances over, and his face flares open with surprise. He slaps a hand to his comm, just as Darhe’el begins to laugh. Sedos begins to choke in great wrenching gags.

“Now that,” Darhe’el chuckles. “ _That_ is loyalty.”

Dukat bares his teeth. “Dukat to Medical - I want Dr. Tebua in Interrogation Room 1.”

But Naprem already knows they won’t get here in time. She’s paralyzed, watching Sedos suck his own blood into his lungs, staring at Darhe’el with rapture in his eyes. She watches him until his eyes roll in his head and his chin drops forward, chest coated in his own blood - the medics burst into the room, jostling past her but it’s too late. She knows it’s too late, just from the looseness in Darhe’el’s posture. She knows it even before the medics get their hands on Sedos. She knows it from the way Darhe’el looks over at Dukat with a self-satisfied smile.

“Well,” he says. “Perhaps you’ll have better luck with the next man.”

Dukat jabs the comm again.

“This is Dukat to Security Chief Lukin. Join me in Interrogation Room 1. _Now._ ”

Lukin sounds almost eager as he replies. “ _I obey, sir._ ”

Darhe’el raises a brow ridge. “Calling in the cavalry already?” he coos.

Lukin appears in the doorway so quickly Naprem almost jumps out of her skin. Her pulse is a hummingbird in her mouth, her palms slick with cold sweat. It feels like she’s in a waking nightmare.

“Sir,” Lukin says,

Dukat steps back, jaw flexing with anger. “I want this man arrested.”

Darhe’el brows arch. “You can’t be serious.”

But Lukin’s almost gleeful. “I obey, sir,” he says. “What are the charges?”

“Conspiracy, obstruction of justice, and intent to commit treason,” he says. Lukin moves forward with a pair of suppression cuffs.

“This is outrageous,” Darhe’el says. “This will never stand.”

“Gul Dukat,” Dr. Tebua interrupts. “I’m taking this man to medical.”

Dukat nods sharply. “Computer,” he says. “Security override omega-black-ten-ninety. Vocal signature, Dukat.”

“ _Recognized_ _,_ ” says the computer. “ _Security override initialized._ ”

Sedos’ cuffs release just as Dr. Tebua jabs him in the neck with a hypospray. She and her nurse heft him onto a hover bed and hurry him out of the room. Naprem jumps aside, keeping as far away from him as physically possible. Lukin grabs Darhe’el by the wrist.

“Unhand me,” Darhe’el snarls, ripping his hand loose. Dukat steps back, and Naprem presses nearer to him, not quite meaning to, but feeling safer there than anywhere else in the room.

That’s when she hears it - Damar’s voice on the comm, a slightly panicked lilt to it.

“ _Damar to Dukat_ _,_ ” he says, and then, too quickly thereafter: “ _Damar to Dukat, please respond._ ”

Dukat lifts his wrist, frowning. “This is Dukat. Report.”

“ _Sir_ _,_ ” Damar says. “ _There’s a group of men amassing outside Operations. Soldiers. They’re armed, sir._ ”

Dukat stares at his comm. Lukin freezes, only one of his cuffs around Darhe’el’s stocky wrists. Naprem feels her heart come to a short and sudden stop.

“Damar,” Dukat says, slowly. “Repeat your previous message.”

“ _A group of armed men is gathering outside Operations, sir._ ”

Dukat stares at the comm badge as though it’s possessed. Naprem can’t breathe.

“ _I believe it’s a coupe, sir. They mean to take the station by force._ ”

“Go to red alert,” Dukat says, sharply. “I’m authorizing a complete security lockdown - all soldiers are to stand by for my orders. Lock down Operations - I want no one in or out, do you understand?”

“ _Yes, sir_ _,_ ” Damar says, and the room lights up in red. “ _Standing by, sir._ ”

“Computer,” Dukat barks, pressing his hand to the pad beside the door, “initiate security lockdown, Condition eighteen-zero-zero-kilak. Initiate containment procedure and complete terminal lockout.”

“ _Acknowledged_ _,_ ” the computer says, and a containment field zips into place behind them. The air buzzes with it, electricity feathering over Naprem’s skin. A single siren sounds through the station. Then, they’re left staring at one another in red, electrified silence.

“I believe it’s your move,” Darhe’el says, after a moment.

“Against the wall,” Dukat snarls, and Lukin pins Darhe’el there with such force that it’s almost enough to make Naprem’s hands stop trembling.

Darhe’el growls and gnashes his teeth, bucking, slamming back against Lukin’s shoulder. They struggle for a moment, Lukin with Darhe’el’s wrists in his grip, Darhe’el with his feet planted against the floor, clawed boots digging in. Then, in a move so quick Naprem almost doesn’t see it, Darhe’el whips his thick tail into Lukin’s ankles and he loses his footing. Dukat goes for his phaser but Darhe’el is faster - he whips around and pegs Lukin in the chest, blasting him backwards. Lukin lands heavily on his back, stunned. Naprem gasps, and Dukat shields her. He and Darhe’el stand very still, phasers raised, staring one another down.

“Well, now,” Darhe’el purrs. “I suppose you'd call this a stalemate.”

Naprem exhales a shuddering breath and, entirely without meaning to, begins to hope that Dukat is the one Cardassian worthy of prayer.


	5. Stalemate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Naprem versus Goliath.

In thirty-three years of internment, Naprem has found herself on the business end of a Cardassian phaser exactly four times. The first time was, of course, at Dajuu - the second was at Aetecca, when she’d moved from her station to try and help a woman who’d collapsed. The third was at Ozo, when they’d uprooted her bunk in search of Resistance fighters. The fourth was at Cibawea, when they’d come to drag her out of Gul Duvek’s office.

But never in her life has she been in a position like this: one phaser pointed at her, another holding it at bay. Dukat doesn’t have to angle himself in front of her this time. She stays behind him, rigid with fear.

In comparison, Darhe’el is a man in his element. He’s poised, smile threaded with excitement - the red of the room makes him look eerily like the hungry young man he just ordered to drown in his own blood. He holds the phaser with a killer’s confidence.

“You always were quick on the draw,” he says. “Quick to draw, slow to fire. That’ll get you killed, boy. There’s an art in knowing when to move.”

He lifts his foot and kicks Lukin’s prone body aside. Naprem jumps a little, but Dukat stays where he is.

“I’m beginning to suspect this was your plan all along,” Dukat says, the tip of his tail flicking slowly, the rest of him unmoving. “All this time I was expecting something… sophisticated.”

“There’s nothing more sophisticated than killing,” Darhe’el says. “Everything else is just… set dressing. Oh, it’s entertaining, perhaps - for the faint of heart. But this, Dukat - this is the most sophisticated act of communication there is.”

Then he takes a step - his left foot crosses in front of his right. He places it deliberately.

Like a mirror, Naprem feels Dukat do the same.

“You were planning to kill me,” Dukat says.

Darhe’el shrugs a little. “I was never averse to the idea. It was made clear to me that when I seized the Prefecture it would most likely be after stepping over your dead body. After what happened to Tirek…”

“I’m not Tirek,” Dukat says.

Darhe’el raises a brow ridge.

“No,” he agrees. “You’re more irritating than Tirek ever was.”

He steps again, pulling his right foot from behind his left. Dukat mirrors him. Naprem hurries after him like a shadow, preternaturally aware of her own body. If Darhe’el fires, will it be enough to kill Dukat? Will the blast pierce his body? Will it hit her? If it does, will she survive? Is Lukin dead? Is Sedos dead? Is everyone in Operations dead?

Dukat and Darhe’el circle one another slowly, sizing one another up, staying completely in tandem. Neither of them dare moves faster - any moment, Naprem expects the tension to snap like a rubber band. They're all waiting for that, she realizes. Circling… circling, her following in Dukat's shadow, terrified of what might happen if she lags a little too far behind, gets a little too far forward. Left leg crosses, right leg sweeps, slowly, slowly, on and on, until she and Dukat are edging towards the blinding pool of light.

They can't step into it, she thinks in a panic - he'll be blind, she knows how sensitive Cardassian eyes are, knows how bright they keep the interrogation lights. Before he can take another step, she presses her hand to his back - slow, steady pressure so he won't startle.

“How long will it take your eyes to adjust if I turn off the light?”

“What?” He angles his head back towards her without taking his eyes off Darhe'el.

“How long,” she murmurs, “will it take your eyes to adjust if I turn off the light?”

She sees Dukat do the math in his head. “A second. Maybe more.”

“I see you two muttering over there,” Darhe’el says. “Whatever desperate maneuver you're planning, I'd warn you - back when I was a garresh, they taught us to aim with our eyes closed.”

“Did they ever teach you to aim with your eyes open?” Dukat snipes.

Even in the midst of her lingering terror, Naprem is overwhelmed with exasperation. “And you pretend you don't understand sarcasm.”

“I'm genuinely curious.”

“Enough,” Darhe’el says, impatiently. “You're not going to shoot me.”

“Oh, but I will.” Dukat's tail swings like a cat’s, flicking as he readies himself to pounce. “In thirty seconds, if you have not dropped your phaser, it will be my _pleasure_ to render you unable to ever use it or any other implement of destruction ever again.”

“Puff yourself up as much as you like,” Darhe’el says again. “You’re _not_ going to shoot me.”

“Twenty-five seconds,” Dukat says. Naprem’s pulse jumps in her throat.

“You’re not!”

“Twenty-two…”

“Shoot me,” Darhe’el says, “and you’ll lose the Prefecture. We both know it.”

Dukat chuffs. “You just pulled a phaser on a superior officer. Shooting you is my right.”

Darhe’el waves the phaser, gesturing carelessly with it, as though it’s nothing but a prop. “Yes, the courts may be on your side. But if you shoot me, you’ll destabilize your entire administration. There’s no salvaging this, Dukat. Whatever happens here, between the two of us, is pretense. You’re finished.”

Dukat bares his teeth. “Twelve seconds, Darhe’el.”

“Kill me,” Darhe’el says, “and lose the loyalty of every gul in your administration.”

Naprem sees Dukat’s thumb flick to the power setting on his phaser. Goosebumps rise on her skin as it begins to hum.

“They’ll know that they can challenge you and win,” Darhe’el says. “It’ll be obvious to everyone how deeply unqualified you are, after this - I’ll be surprised if the Detapa Council doesn’t strip you of your commission. How long has it been? Six months? No. Less than that. A _mutiny_ on your station, when you haven’t even been here _six months?_ Oh, you’ll be finished. But yes, if you’d like everyone to know how unprepared you are to lead this or any administration ever again, please...”

He spreads his arms, phaser dangling from his forefinger.

“...shoot me.”

Naprem holds her breath, her heartbeat so loud in her ears she can scarcely hear anything else. Dukat stands, poised, phaser at the ready and pointed directly at Darhe’el’s heart.

_Take the shot_ , she almost whispers to him. What does she care about Cardassian politics? What does it matter if he’s stripped of his commission? Darhe’el will be dead. She sees his shadow looming twice his size, painted in soft crimson on the wall behind him, and some part of her twists into a fist around the desire to see an inky spatter of Cardassian blood join it.

She stares at him from across the room, arms open, waiting for death, and she wishes it upon him with such force it makes her sick.

And then, Dukat slowly lowers his phaser.

Darhe’el tuts and shakes his head. “You know, it’s really a miracle you were able to convince anyone to give you this position in the first place. Six months is far too long for this planet to be governed by someone so bereft of _common sense._ ”

Then, in a single movement, he raises his phaser, pointing it directly at them. Naprem’s body jolts just as Dukat jerks his wrist up.

“Now,” Darhe’el purrs, “where would you like this? No doubt you’d like to keep your face for the funeral.”

“The only funeral you should be thinking about is your own,” Dukat snaps. “They’ll execute you for this, Darhe’el.”

“For what?” Darhe’el all but bats his eyelashes - seeing him play innocent makes Naprem’s skin crawl. “You can’t think anyone else is going to know about this.”

“Everything that goes on in this room is recorded,” Dukat says. “Every one of those recordings is filed with Central Command.”

“After receiving administrative approval,” Darhe’el says. “Yes. And who do you think will have that approval in a but a few short hours?”

“Not you,” Dukat says, with great certainty.

“Who else? Who could possibly be more qualified than the man who single-handedly stopped the Bajoran uprising that claimed your life?”

His plan breaks over Naprem like a fever - she feels her skin go hot even as her chest goes cold. Darhe’el sucks his teeth and tuts his tongue, shaking his head piteously. “A tragic end, really - you and I were here when the uprising began, claiming the lives of your most loyal officers. Unfortunately, I won’t be quite fast enough to stop the rebels from corrupting the security footage as they attempt to seize control of the station. We’ll have no choice but to purge them all, of course. It’s a matter of setting an example…”

Dukat coughs out a humorless laugh. “Central Command will never be fooled by such a transparent _lie._ ”

“We’ve all been nervous about this new aide of yours,” Darhe’el says, and Naprem’s back goes ramrod straight.

“ _Me?_ ” she gasps out, but Darhe’el continues on talking as though she said nothing at all.

“Really - it will only satisfy their worst suspicions when, with only a few days’ access to you, she killed you with your own phaser.” Darhe’el runs the tip of his finger almost sensuously across the trigger of his phaser. “We all know what poor impulse control these animals have. After that, it was a simple thing to lead the rest of her _swarm_ against your beleaguered, demoralized troops…” He catches Naprem’s gaze, running his eyes over her the same way he’s running his finger over the trigger. “It’s in everyone’s best interest that she be put down. Though I think I may have some fun before I do what’s necessary - it’ll be just you and I, after all, girl. Once we’ve disposed of the...” He flicks his eyes to Dukat and smiles slow. “...interloper.”

Naprem can’t gasp again - she can’t even breathe. For a second her whole body locks up, filled with such terror and hatred that she can’t do anything but stare, open-mouthed, at him. Her hands are starting to go numb. She’s dizzy, like she was before she fainted. Her heart is clenched tight as a fist.

She’ll bite her tongue, she thinks. She’ll throw herself into the containment field. She’ll shoot herself with Dukat’s phaser before he can get close. Her whole life - her _whole life_ , and how utterly ugly and wasted it’s been, how utterly pointless for it all to come down to this one moment.

All at once, for no particular reason, she remembers Fekak’s small, wispy voice curling up out of the back of her brain like a trail of smoke. She remembers her turning something over in her lap that she wouldn’t let Naprem see - a heart-shaped rock, Naprem realizes. It must have been. She’s always getting in trouble for collecting them.

_No escape but in death._

And then, just as her body is going cold, Dukat reaches back and pulls her behind him. He puffs himself up, fans out his ridges, pulls his shoulders and his stance wide. Her hand is still resting on his back. She can feel him breathing tight, purposeful breaths. He shields her with his own body, and she feels her heart squeeze between the fingers of her ribs.

“Touch her,” he says, voice rumbling with distant thunder, “and I will destroy you.”

Darhe’el laughs, but Dukat levels his phaser with renewed confidence, taking aim at his unprotected throat.

“Dukat. She’s not worth it,” Darhe’el says, calmly. “Die with a little dignity, won’t you? Either I kill you here, or my men do.”

Dukat’s phaser begins to whine once more. “Once I’ve killed you - I _can_ die with dignity.”

“You’ll be ruined,” Darhe’el says. “A laughing stock. They’ll demote you to gil again. And that’s assuming they make their move before any of the other guls do - they’ll realize they’re all capable of seizing the Prefecture for themselves, if only they have a little moxie. All your life’s achievements… boiled down to this.” He tips his head with an egalitarian-looking moue. “Wouldn’t it be better to simply die? Before the humiliation starts?”

“That assumes you win,” Naprem hisses, huddling against Dukat’s back.

Both of the Cardassians freeze. The whining of both phasers dies down. Darhe’el peers at her.

“What was that?”

“I said, _that assumes you_ **_win_**.” Her teeth ache. Everything aches. She’s coursing with fear and with rage, with loathing for him. Her bones are rattling every time her blood races past them. She’s dizzy. She’s nauseous. She’s numb.

But she doesn’t want to hear him prattle on even a second longer. She’s not Darhe’el’s to toy with. She’s not going to die with her tongue clenched between her teeth.

“You keep going on and on,” she says, ragged and uneven, “as if it’s a given that the soldiers you’ve rallied to your cause will be sufficient to overwhelm Dukat’s men in Ops. I’ve met those men. They’re trained. Disciplined. If Garresh Sedos is any indication of the quality of your troops, I wouldn’t bet on their odds of winning.”

Darhe’el’s ridges flood with indignation, taking aim at her just past Dukat’s left shoulder. “You insolent little _whelp_ \--”

“And!” Naprem shouts, in order to be heard over him, “I challenge you, _sir_ \- if your men lose, and you shoot Gul Dukat - how likely do you think it is you’ll make it to your trial any less than utterly disgraced, if not _dead?_ ”

Darhe’el glowers at her, phaser at the ready. But he doesn’t power it up.

“My men,” he says, “won’t lose.”

“How confident are you of that?” Naprem asks.

“Extremely.”

“Well, I hope for your sake you’re right, sir. I’ve heard the punishment for treason is quite severe on Cardassia.” She says it like a curse - she breathes his imminent death into the air, gives it life, gives it wings, urges it to take flight and descend upon him.

“She’s right,” Dukat says, and Naprem ignores the jolt of delight it gives her to hear the raw, unbroken pride in his voice. “If my men win… your fate is sealed. I’d be doing you a mercy to shoot you where you stand.”

“My men will not lose!” Darhe’el barks, but he takes a step back just as Dukat takes a step forward. He bristles. “Take one step closer, Dukat…”

“You won’t shoot me,” Dukat says, coldly.

Darhe’el holds up his finger. “At this moment,” he says, “we have no idea _what_ the situation on the bridge may be.”

“No idea?” Dukat asks with a disbelieving grin. “My men are some of best trained soldiers in the Cardassian military.”

“I trained those boys _myself_ ,” Darhe’el spits. “I personally mentored each of them - what they may lack in experience, they more than make up for in talent. They’ve been preparing for this battle for months. And how have your soldiers been preparing themselves? They spend all day standing around, staring at screens - and all night drinking. Carousing. _Fraternizing._ I’ll be impressed if a single one among them can even hold a phaser, very less shoot straight.”

“You’d bet your life on that?” Naprem interrupts.

“Of course I would,” Darhe’el says. “I have.”

“And Sedos didn’t shake your confidence?” she asks, snidely. Let him taste her bitterness, she thinks. Let him drown in it. “We’ve arrested a fair few of your men, Darhe’el - all of them were off rotation, in no small part because they weren’t bright enough to keep a secret. Your little ‘uprising’ is missing its most dedicated members, which means you’re losing a numbers game on two fronts: years _and_ bodies.”

“There are others willing to fight,” Darhe’el snaps. “We had plenty of recruits - dozens of soldiers who weren’t so easily suaded with your flagrant promotion of debauchery onboard this station.”

“You’re willing to put your life in the hands of soldiers you’ve never met?” Naprem scoffs. “Soldiers so easily won to a cause that you could count them in the _dozens?_ ”

Darhe’el’s thumb jumps to his phaser again. “I’ve had _enough_ of you, girl.”

“I’m just stating facts,” Naprem says, canting her chin up in a way that’s utterly contrary. “Though it doesn’t surprise me that you’re tired of hearing them - you’d have to be fairly delusional to get this far into a plan without calculating its odds of failure.”

Darhe’el’s face creases with hatred as his brows bear down against his nose. “This is why you’ll lose, Dukat. You refuse to do your duty to _tame_ these savages - you let them behave any way they like, so long as it amuses you.”

“I treat the Bajorans as they deserve to be treated,” Dukat says. “Seven Prefects before me have tried and failed to beat the insubordination out of them. I’m simply trying something else. If that’s the sort of thing that makes you want to shoot me - well. The Bajorans may not be the only ones lacking in order and civility.”

Naprem swallows thickly, even as he continues. “Tora’s earned her place at my side. What do you suppose you’ve earned, Darhe’el?”

Darhe’el’s lip hitches, and his teeth catch the light. “You’d ally yourself with a _Bajoran?_ You really are a pioneer of degeneracy.”

“Says the man with a reputation built on the wholesale slaughter of those too beaten down to fight back,” Naprem says, and the words tear ragged from her throat. “You call yourself a soldier - you’re not even in a _war!_ The people you’ve dedicated your life to razing from the earth, they don’t represent any threat to you. You’re not fighting a military force, you’re butchering a population of civilians - do Cardassians _fight_ real wars, or do they purposely embroil themselves in pointless conflicts with inferior forces so that their so-called soldiers and would-be mercenaries have something to _do_ all day?”

Darhe’el’s finger twitches on the trigger of his phaser, and suddenly Dukat is in front of her again, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her behind him, his cape snapping at his heels, his own phaser held steady. Thirty years held on the edge of a knife, and even with the danger pushing at her skin, she feels a twin swell of both comfort and annoyance being at moved and protected.

“Careful,” Dukat says. Naprem’s not sure who he’s saying it to, but she’s not content to be shielded anymore. She pushes at the arm he holds across her chest, fighting to be seen.

“You’re pathetic!” she spits at Darhe’el. “Just a washed-up old man trying to prove he’s still worth the price of his boots. Any blunt instrument can kill, Darhe’el, any random accident - there’s nothing sophisticated about it. You aren’t clever, you aren’t special. You’re a parasite! And you’re a coward. All that armor, all that training - a phaser and the high ground, and you’re still _scared of me!_ ”

“Silence!” Darhe’el roars.

The chirp of Dukat’s comm makes them all jump. All at once, Naprem feels the anger drain out of her, only to be replaced with dread. She holds her breath, heart in her mouth.

She stares at Dukat as he slowly raises his wrist.

“This is Dukat,” he says.

“ _Gul Dukat_ ,” Damar says. “ _Operations is secure. All enemy combatants have been incapacitated._ ”

Naprem can’t help the sigh of unexpected relief - she feels Dukat release one at exactly the same time and her eyes prick with tears. She bites her lip so hard it blanches.

“Any casualties?” Dukat asks, and his voice is as uneven as her heartbeat.

“ _None on our side, sir. With your permission, I’m accompanying a team to your position._ ”

“Granted,” Dukat says. “Computer,” he barks. “Allow Glinn Damar override authorizations - code zeta-kel-seventeen-eighty.”

“ _Acknowledged,_ ” the computer says. “ _Override permissions granted._ ”

Across the room, Darhe’el has gone obnoxiously quiet. He holds his phaser limply, staring at the floor with an expression of utter consternation and disbelief. Naprem’s reminded of an old Bajoran man she once saw standing just abreast of Quark’s dabo tables, empty pockets turned out, empty hands hanging slack, staring as though the table itself had done him wrong.

Dukat lowers his wrist comm, and lifts his phaser.

“Now,” he says, with a definite smugness, “where would you like this?”

Darhe’el looks up, color draining from his ridges.

“This isn’t over,” he hisses.

“Not yet,” Dukat agrees, taking aim.

“Kill me if you’d like,” Darhe’el says, baring his teeth. He looks like a cornered animal, scared and ever-shrinking. Naprem finds she likes it - she likes the fear on his face. She relishes in it. “It won’t save you. The second this all began, you’d already lost. A hundred guls will follow in my place, ready to tear you apart and pick the meat from your bones.”

“Tell me who,” Dukat says, “and perhaps I’ll make it quick.”

“The men on this station aren’t the only ones to approach me,” Darhe’el says. His eyes have taken on a sickly, feverish glow. “The guls in your administration hunger for decisive leadership - and they know you can’t offer it. In my absence, the boldest among them will attack you relentlessly. And someday soon, one of them will take this post from you, along with all its... accoutrements.”

He looks Naprem in the eye and smiles like it’s being cut into his face. “There may not be anyone nearly as qualified as I am - but there are plenty who can take up the fight in my stead. And they will. Happily.” His eyes flick back to Dukat. “We _will_ bring these animals to heel.”

Dukat’s phaser begins to whine. His finger flexes against the trigger. All at once, Naprem sees the fear disappear from Darhe’el’s face. He takes a deep breath, and she’s something like peace settle over his face. He looks almost...pleased.

And without thinking, Naprem puts her hand on Dukat’s elbow. The whine dies. He pulls his finger off the trigger, turning his head to look at her, somewhere between confused and irate.

“Professor,” he says, tone disbelieving. “What are you doing?”

_It’s too easy,_ she wants to say. _It’s what he wants, it’s part of his plan, it’s playing right into his hands somehow, though I don’t know how._

She wants to say all of this. But none of it comes out. She looks back at him, and something in her face makes his brows pull back - his face relaxes into an expression of vague bewilderment.

“It’s not enough,” she says in the end. Because it isn’t. Thousands of Bajorans dead at his hands, and he’s about to die with a smile on his face, his final plan somehow enacted.

Darhe’el seems to wake up from his pleasant daydream of mischief managed - his anger rises to the surface again, hate like an expired wine, all vinegar and pus.

“He’s right,” she murmurs. “He’s right - a hundred sadists will follow in his place. If you kill him, there will be another right behind him, ready to carry out his enduring legacy of violence. It’s not enough to kill him.”

She turns to him, finally out in the light after all this time, side by side with Dukat. She’s not cowering in his shadow anymore - and she won’t do it again.

“We still have the footage,” she says. “Footage of Gul Darhe’el assaulting our chief security officer, and then holding you, the Prefect, at gunpoint for just under an hour. And we’ll keep that footage. It’ll be our little secret.”

“Why,” Darhe’el croaks.

“Why,” Naprem says, “because you’re going to solve the problem you created. You’re right, of course, that loyalty is a very valuable thing - especially to a controversial new leader. So, the minute we leave this room, you’re going to condemn the coup you started. You’re going to distance yourself from the soldiers who enacted it on your orders, and declare them a rogue element. And you’re going to voice your unequivocal and wholehearted support for the Prefect.

“Because,” she continues, ice flecking her lips from the frostiness of her tone, “if you don’t, you will be on a one-way trip home to Cardassia Prime, where you will be summarily tortured, humiliated, debased, and then finally executed as an intergalactic _disgrace_.”

Darhe’el stares at her, but it’s Dukat’s stare that interests her more.

“Professor,” Dukat says, slowly. “This man has been directly responsible for some of the most repellent acts of cruelty ever committed.”

“Yes,” Naprem nods. “He has.”

“And you’d allow me to live?” Darhe’el says, cracking a smile anew. “How saintly. And yet… how very stupid.”

“Is it?” Naprem asks, and the smile falls off Darhe’el’s lips. “Because I think this is much better than killing you. No, Gul Darhe’el. You’re going to suffer. You’re going to know _fear_ , the way you’ve made so many others feel fear. We’re going to keep the security footage. Every morning when you wake up, you’re going to be forced to wonder:  _is today the day?_ Is today the day when your luck finally runs out? Every single morning, I want you to wake up thinking that death for treason is just another day closer. Because I know that for you, that’s a far worse fate than death: knowing that, each day, your life depends on the capricious whims of a _single Bajoran._ Who hates you. Very much. And may at any moment be persuaded to end your suffering with the single… push… of a button.”

Darhe’el has never looked so small as he looks right then. There’s something about that that delights her.

There’s a sound out in the hall - a whoosh of automatic doors.

“That’s our offer,” Naprem says, coolly. She exchanges a look with Dukat, who gives her a short, small nod. She looks back at Darhe’el and quirks an eyebrow. “Take it or leave it.”

There’s a scrabble of one set of clawed boots out in the hallway.

“Hurry now,” Naprem says. “Time grows short. Loyalty and lifetime of suffering - or death. Right here. Right now. Live as a coward, or die as a traitor.”

Claws scrape the edge of the doorframe as Garresh Sedos skids into view. He’s still bloody, badly wounded, winded byhis run from Medical. He’s in utter disarray, his face a mask of encroaching death, gaunt and pale.

“Gul Darhe’el,” he starts, with that wanton spark of adulation in his eyes.

Darhe’el raises his phaser without a second’s hesitation and shoots him through the head. The shot _wings_ through the containment shielding, striking the garresh directly in the forehead. Sedos crumples to the floor just as the doors at the end of the hall open again. The containment field comes down and Damar appears in the doorway, his own phaser at the ready.

“Sir!” He looks at the fallen garresh, slightly agape. “What happened here?”

Darhe’el glances at Naprem, then at Dukat. Then, he gives Damar a genial smile.

“Glinn Damar,” he says. “It’s good to see you’re alright.”

He shows Naprem his back, and she knows, by the tone of his voice, that she’s won.

* * *

 

Dr. Tebua spends upwards of an hour peering in their noses and eyes, checking and re-checking their bioscans, in spite of the fact that Dukat insists nothing untoward happened while they were in the cell with Darhe’el. She doesn’t challenge the lie, but she doesn’t listen to him, either. She takes his pulse no less than three times, jabs him under the jaw with several hyposprays without saying what they’re for, and then brusquely ushers them out as though _they’ve_ been keeping _her_.

They don’t talk much on the way back to Ops. When they walk in, Damar just behind them, a cheer goes up among the soldiers. Dukat grins and waves off their congratulations. Naprem’s distracted by the long tracks of blood down the steps and around the lift.

_They almost did it,_ she realized. Darhe’el’s soldiers made it into this room. They died here. But they made it all this way. They could’ve made it a step further. It could have been Darhe’el walking through these doors to the sounds of applause. They came so close, today - so dangerously close.

Dukat’s halfway through a speech before she realizes she hasn’t been listening.

“The Union owes you a great debt for your actions today, as do I,” he’s saying. “It's thanks to your commendable effort that this station still stands. No one could ask for a better crew.” His smile is that of a proud papa. Naprem wonders how he can possibly smile after everything that’s just happened. The jubilation that mists the air congeals at the back of her mouth into a rotten, fetid ooze she struggles to swallow around.

Damar orders everyone back to work, and as he passes, Dukat turns him and claps a hand on his shoulder.

“Damar,” he says. “You did well today. There’s no one I’d rather have at my back.”

For the first time since she met him, Naprem sees a smile tug at the corner of Damar’s mouth.

“Nor I, sir,” he says, and when he walks off it’s with the slightest hint of swagger.

After a moment regarding his crew, Dukat strides off towards his office. Naprem follows with all the enthusiasm of a lead balloon.

But as soon as the doors close behind them, Dukat’s shoulders sag. For the first time, he walks past his desk, into a small alcove along the side of the room, motioning for the Naprem to follow. There’s a pair of small armless seats there, situated across a small table from one another, out of view of the paneled office doors. On the table sits a black glass bottle of kanar, along with a small bowl of fruit. Dukat collapses into one of the chairs, and gestures across the table for Naprem to do the same. She folds down into it, watching as all the stress in him seems to shake loose - he rests his elbows on the table, sagging into them, pushing his forehead against his palm.

She’s beginning to wonder if he’s planning to say anything when he finally sits up and pulls the sharp-ended stopper out of the kanar. He pours her a glass without her asking.

“That was quite a thing you did today, Professor.”

“Mm,” Naprem says, unable to think of anything else to say. She accepts the glass of kanar when he nudges it in her direction, holding it between her hands. She stares into the thick tar-like surface of it and doesn’t see a hint of her own reflection.

When she looks up, Dukat’s watching her from across the table.

“I mean that,” he says. “I owe you my life.”

Naprem flushes lightly, but doesn’t feel it. She looks away, shakes her head. “I was only doing what you hired me to do.”

“I hired you to advise my policies,” he says. “Not negotiate terms of surrender with a psychopath bent on unseating me.”

He takes a sip of his kanar, gestures for her to do the same. She averts her eyes again, takes a sip because she sees no way around it. The kanar plants a bitter kiss on her mouth, sickly sweet and thick as oil.

Dukat wrinkles his nose at her. “Have I offended you?” he asks.

“No,” she says.

“You seem loathe to accept my praise, Professor.”

“I don’t particularly take much pride in what I’ve just done,” she murmurs to her lap.

Dukat peers at her, turning his head just so.

“Professor,” he says, disbelievingly. “You won. Handily.”

“Gul Darhe’el is back on his ship,” Naprem says. “He’s flying back to Bajor tonight. In the morning, he’ll no doubt resume his reign of terror against my people.” She shakes her head a little. “I had his life in my hands. And I let him go.” She turns to look at the floor, though she’s not really seeing it. “I don’t know how I’m going to live with that. What was I thinking? What was the point of that?”

Dukat interrupts her, setting his hand on the table. His voice is steady and serious. “You made him see that he was wrong to challenge us in the first place.”

She looks up at him, but can’t hold his gaze. There’s something about it - the intensity of him - that drives her eyes down and away from his.

“Professor,” he says. “You don’t need to avoid my eyes.”

She looks back at him - he’s looking at her, really looking. It makes the hair rise on the back of her neck.

“Habit,” she says, without apology.

They watch one another for a while without speaking. Something strange is hanging in the air - a loose thread stitched between them, dangling, catching on each passing second of silence. She studies his eyes, trying to distract herself from plumbing the depths of her shame: she thought they were gray, but they aren’t, are they? They’re blue - dark blue. She wonders why she’s never noticed that before. Perhaps it’s that she’s always too distracted by how his eyes move to notice their color - too distracted by the burning weight of his gaze. There’s a strange heaviness in her throat that she can’t name.

Dukat sighs, finally. “If you truly regret your decision,” he says, “we still have the security footage. He could be dead by this time next week, if that’s what you’d like.”

Naprem swallows thickly and shakes her head. “That wasn’t the agreement.”

“Cardassians don’t concern themselves with honor, Professor. If it will put your mind at ease--”

“It won’t,” Naprem says, and it comes out much sharper than she means it to. She swallows, tries again. “It won’t put my mind at ease.”

“Then you refuse to be mollified.”

“I don’t _refuse_ ,” Naprem says, trying to make him understand. “I just can’t be.” She puts her kanar down on the table. Her d’ja pagh pendant swings against her neck when she shakes her head. “Either decision I could've made feels like the wrong one.”

Dukat watches her a while longer, then nods slowly, thrusting his bottom lip out as he mulls it over. “You don’t like violence,” he recalls.

“Surely one death to prevent thousands more is a worthy sacrifice,” Naprem says.

“I agree,” Dukat says. “But… in the end, he was right about one thing.” He turns his head, gazing out of the viewport. “There are plenty of men like him, ready and willing to take his place. This conflict has long ceased to be an attractive venture to men of true moral fiber. It’s the sadists who flock here; I fear you’ve seen only the very worst of what my people have to offer, Professor. It’s made you understandably jaded.”

He nurses his kanar, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Damar says we’ve already received nearly a dozen calls from guls all over the planet. It seems they were under the impression they’d be speaking to a new Prefect by now.”

“So he wasn’t bluffing.”

“No,” Dukat agrees. “It appears he had the support he claimed he did.” He lifts his glass, twisting it slowly back and forth, the light falling through the kanar as though through a muddy prism. “If I had killed him, it no doubt would’ve rallied them against me. They might have tried to have me stripped of my commission, and I would’ve been hard-pressed to resist them.”

Naprem says nothing, but he turns back to look at her all the same.

“Professor,” he says. “In this line of work, I fear many choices I’m tasked to make have equally dissatisfactory outcomes. Most often, I find I’m forced to make the decision which results in the harm of the fewest number of people. This station is home to just over six thousand Bajoran workers, all of whom would be dead now if Darhe’el had been allowed to carry out his plan. You conducted yourself honorably today.”

“I thought Cardassians didn’t care about honor,” she says.

“No,” he says. “But you do.”

She looks at him - really looks. She remembers how he stood in front of her, shielding her from Darhe’el without ever being asked.

“You do too,” she says.

He’s quiet for a moment. And then, he nods. “I do. It’s an unfortunate affliction of mine.”

“I don’t think so,” Naprem says, and the words sound more bold in the open air than she intended them to be.

Dukat watches her for a while, then takes a drink from his cup. She does the same, wondering if she ought to take it back but not knowing how. She swallows, the bitter taste bothering her less now that her tongue is beginning to numb.

“Thank you,” she says, which seems like what she ought to say and - more importantly - what he wants to hear.

“Thank _you_ , Professor,” he replies, the tension in his shoulders easing.

Perhaps that’s enough, Naprem thinks, slowly swirling her drink in her glass. Perhaps it’s enough to simply tell him what he wants to hear and wait to figure out what exactly it is _she’s_ waiting to hear.

“I was very proud of you today,” he says, interrupting her thoughts.

“Proud?” she repeats, unable to mask her surprise.

“Very,” he says, almost nonchalantly. “Any commander would have felt lucky to have someone so competent at their side. In many ways, you were more valuable to me in that room than any Cardassian officer could have been.” He leans forward just slightly, making very direct eye contact. “Your help today was invaluable, Professor.”

She feels a strange jolt in her chest, as though some vital mechanism has suddenly begun moving again after decades of disuse. Her cheeks flush with red.

“Thank you,” she says again. This time, she means it.

He smiles in a knowing sort of way, and nurses his kanar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A monstrous thank you to everyone who made this fic possible - D'rorah, my beta, without whom I would be lesser (or "lerser", depending on who you ask), and whose ego coddling and encouragement is always appreciated; Lena aka "the person I write Naprain for," who has guided this story out of the dark many, many times; Mocha and Al who never hesitate to gas me the fuck up; Dawn, who always leaves me wonderful comments, even if it takes me forever to respond to them. So much love to all of you, and to every reader of this small little passion project of mine. See you next time!


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